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A    CHOICE    AND    POPULAR    BOOK! 


T  WENTY-FIFTII  TIIO  US  AND— NO  W  READ  Y. 
TIMOTHY     TITCOMB'S    LETTERS 

TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE,  SINGLE  AND  MARRIED. 

1  vol.  12mo.,  $1  00;  or  in  full  gilt,  $1  50. 

THEIR  GOOD  SENSE,  SOUND  ADVICE,  AND  GENIAL  HUMOE  COMMEND 
THEM  TO  ALL. 

"  This  series  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  kind  \ve  have  ever  met  with.  The  writer  ia 
evidently  a  shrewd  observer,  and  he  gives  an  infinite  deal  of  wholesome  advice  in  a 
plain,  open,  straightforward  manner.  While  he  inculcates  true  religious  principles,  he 
indulges  in  no  cant,  and  his  style  is  such  as  will  at  once  attract  the  attention  of  those 
for  whom  the  work  is  written." — New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"Pleasantly  told,  and  couched  in  such  language  that  it  cannot  fail  to  win  its  way  to 
the  hearts  of  the  young.  Tho  subjects  treated  bear  upon  all  the  relations  of  life ;  and 
the  moral  tone  which  characterizes  every  page,  the  earnestness  which  is  breathed  into 
every  line,  and  the  genuine  love  of  the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful,  which  casts  its 
halo  over  the  whole  work,  cannot  fail  to  leave  their  impress  on  the  mind  of  the  reader." 
—Buffalo  Courier. 

"  We  have  rarely  read  a  volume  which  contained  more  plain,  good,  common  sense  or 
practical  advice.  It  is  written  in  a  taking  style,  and  will  be  a  treasure  in  many  a  house 
hold." — Boston  Atlas. 

"  Their  good  sense,  s«und  advice  and  genial  humor,  commend  them  to  general  perusal." 
—Albany  Evening  Journal. 

The  London  Literary  Gazette  says:—"  We  have  never  read  a  work  which  better  in 
culcates  the  several  duties  and  responsibilities  of  young  men  and  women,  married  or 
single." 

"The  strong  common  sease  which  pervades  them,  the  frank  and  manly  utterance  of 
•wholesome  truths  in  pointed  and  beautiful  language,  and  the  genial  sympathy  which  the 
author  has  for  those  whom  be  addresses,  cannot  fail  to  commend  the  work  to  general 
favor. 

"FOE   PURE    ENGLISH  DICTION  AND  BEAUTIFUL  IMAGERY  IT  WILL 
TAKE  ITS  PLACE  AS  A  CLASSIC  WITH  IRVING'S  SKETCH  BOOK." 

"  These  letters  are  written  with  such  frankness,  honesty  and  good  sense,  and  exhibit 
such  a  wholesome  horror  of  humbug  and  cant,  that  we  know  the  author  must  be  a  '  good 
fellow,1  and,  while  pleased  to  read  his  book,  learn  to  like  him."— Hartford  Press. 

"  They  contain  many  truthful  and  valuable  suggestions,  presented  in  the  cultivated 
and  attractive  style  of  a  practised  writer.  There  is  an  earnestness  and  hearty  tone  to 
the  whole  which  commends  the  book  to  the  good  opinion  of  all."— Hartford  Times. 

"  Written  in  a  style  to  both  please  and  instruct  They  entitle  the  author  to  the  lasting 
gratitude  of  the  young  as  well  as  the  old."— Northampton  Gazette. 


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NOW  READY. 
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BITTER-SWEET. 

BY  DR.  J.  G.  HOLLAND,  Author  of  "  Timothy  Titconib'a  Letters." 
1  vol.  12mo,  75  cents;  in  full  gilt,  $1  25. 

J.  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  says :  "  It  is  truly  an  original  poem 
— as  genuine  a  product  of  our  soil  as  a  golden-rod  or  an  aster.  It  is  as  purely  Ameri 
can — nay  more  than  that— as  purely  New-English  as  the  poems  of  Burns  are  Scotch. 
From  the  title  to  the  last  line,  it  is  delightfully  characteristic.  "We  mean  it  as  very 
high  praise  when  we  say  that  BitterrSweet  is  one  of  the  few  books  that  have  found 
the  secret  of  drawing  up  and  assimilating  the  juices  of  this  new  world  of  ours/' 

EPES  SAKGENT,  Esq.,  of  Boston,  in  a  letter  to  the  publisher,  says :  "  I  know  of  no 
long  poem  of  American  origin  that  I  can  place  before  it.  In  saying  this,  I  do  not  for 
get  the  productions  of  Longfellow,  HO  deservedly  celebrated.  The  flow  and  mastery  of 
poetic  language  in  this  work  seems  to  me  very  remarkable.  All  the  lyrical  parts  are 
excellent  The  descriptive  parts  are  admirable,  original,  and  thoroughly  American.'" 

The  London  Literary  Gazette,  of  December  4,  says :  "  Bitter-Sweet  is  a  dramatic 
poem  of  unquestionable  power,  representing  the  inner  life  of  a  Puritan  family  in 
New  England.  It  contains  many  eloquent  passages." 

The  London  Athenaeum  says :  "  It  is  a  suggestive  and  original  poem.  Yigor,  and 
force,  and  imaginative  beauty,  are  to  be  found  in  it." 

"  If  we  mistake  not,  our  readers  will  recognize  with  us  the  genius  of  a  true  poet, 
with  a  rare  wealth  of  poetic  sympathies,  profound  observation  of  the  workings  of 
human  passion,  and  the  creative  power  to  clothe  his  conception  in  expressive  forms." 
—New  York  Tribune. 

"  It  is  the  real  power  of  a  work  which  gives  it  a  rank  among  the  productions  of 
genius,  and  to  this  rank  Sitter-Sweet  assuredly  belongs.  Since  the  days  of  Gray 
there  has  been  written  no  better  blank  verse,  and  the  songs  show  a  finish  and  beauty 
which  almost  surpass  Mrs.  Browning."— New  Haven  Journal. 

"A  dramatic  poem  which  is  characteristically  American,  showing  a  great  com 
mand  of  versification  and  purity  of  style.  This  poem  shows  that  Dr.  Holland  is  a 
man  of  genius" — Boston  Post. 

"It  is  a  gem  of  a  book,  unique  in  style  and  conception,  yet  touchingly  simple  and 
grand.  The  poem  contains  passages  of  surpassing  beauty." — Great  Barrington 
Courier. 

" '  Bitter-Sweet '  has  many  exquisite  passages,  and,  as  a  whole,  will  have  legions 
of  admirers." — Boston  Traveller. 

"  It  is  a  book  of  great  originality— the  fruit  of  a  strong,  original,  and  extraordinary 
mind."— Boston  Transcript. 

"  We  feel  assured  that  Bitter-Sweet  will  establish  the  author's  fame  a*  a  poet  of 
genius." —Detroit  Daily  Advertiser. 

"This  panorama,  in  graceful  verse,  is  a  beautiful  and  original  conception,  and  es 
tablishes  Dr.  Holland  anon?  our  Jirst  Amtrisan  poW— Buffalo  Commercial  Ad 
vertiser. 

Ji 


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G-OLD-FOIL, 

HAMMERED   FROM   POPULAR   PROVERBS. 

BY   TIMOTHY   TITCOMB. 

One  volume,  12mo. ;  360  pages.    $1 ;  in  extra  gilt,  $1  50. 

The  homely  proverb  is  but  the  thread  for  a  string  of  Pearls.  The  style  is  one  of 
simple  cast  and  of  chaste  beauty.  We  are  free  to  express  our  admiration  of  a 
volume  characterized  as  this  is  by  sound  common  sense,  manly  feeling,  a  high  moral 
and  truly  practical  tone,  and  a  simple  force  and  beauty  of  thought  and  expression 
which  are  very  rarely  combined. — New  YorJf  Evangelist. 

A  series  not  only  entertaining,  but  tinged  with  a  beautiful  view  of  moral  truths, 
and  expressed  in  language  full  of  rich  thoughts,  but  powerful  against  the  wrong, 
mighty  in  favor  of  the  right.—  Troy  Whig. 

This  work,  admirable  for  its  unity  of  purpose,  and  its  unusual  vigor  of  thought 
comes  to  us  laden  with  rich  and  rare  ideas,  clothed  in  most  brilliant  language ;  the 
exceeding  purity  of  the  stylo  is  one  of  its  greatest  charms.—  Rochester  American. 

In  the  present  work,  his  themes  are  taken  from  common  life,  though  the  illustra 
tions  are  suggested  by  some  of  the  current  proverbs,  that  are  familiar  to  the  people. 
— New  York  Tribune. 

Full  of  good  sense  and  written  in  good  sound  English.  They  are  better  than  tho 
hammered  foil — they  are  the  virgin  metal,  pure,  precious,  and  solid.  It  is  really  a 
satisfaction  to  find  a  volume  of  such  intrinsic  worth.— Providence  Journal. 

A  series  that  will  recommend  themselves  to  the  heart  of  the  reader  for  their 
truthfulness,  simplicity,  tenderness,  and  beauty. — Hartford  Courant. 

It  contains  good  humor,  sound  philosophy,  and  solid  instruction,  in,  a  style  which 
at  once  makes  a  captive  of  the  reader. — Lowell  News. 

The  diction  is  smoother,  more  graceful  (than  "  Titcomb's  Letters ")  and  worthy 
of  "  Bitter-Sweet."  The  doctor  will  gain  a  more  lasting  reputation  among  scholars 
by  "  Gold  Foil."—  Troy  Times. 

A  remarkable  book,  a  work  of  sterling  merit,  which  appeals  to  every  intelligent 
reader.  No  doubt  it  will  reach  a  thousand  editions.— Philadelphia  Oily  Item. 

The  evident  result  of  culture,  reading,  reflection,  and  experience,  as  practical  a 
series  as  any  of  the  PRESENT  CENTURY. — Boston  Gazette. 

Overrun  with  beautiful  language  and  happily  conceived  thoughts. — Boston  Post. 

A  book  which  cannot  be  opened  at  any  page  without  throwing  to  the  mental  eye 
a  gleam  of  light  from  its  pleasing  surface. — Hartford  Times. 

Sensible  and  instructive,  and  deserves  to  be  read  and  pondered  by  young  and 
old. — Boston  Advertiser. 

"Written  in  the  genial  style  and  the  earnest,  friendly  way  which  constitutes  the 
secret  of  Dr.  Holland's  success  in  winning  attention  to  his  sober  teachings.— Buffalo 
Express 

HI 


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"THE  PERFECT  GIFT-BOOK"  FOR  1860-61. 


FOLK-SONGS: 

A  BOOK  OF  GOLDEN  POEMS,  MADE  FOR  THE  POPULAR  HEART 
BY  J.  "W.   IP^LIVCER,    MI.J3. 

UPWARD  OP  SIXTY  OEIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS,  EXQUISITE  IN  DESIGN  AND 
EXECUTION. 

Far-similes  of  the  Original  Autograph  Copies  of  Fifteen  Famons  Poems, 

By  Hood  ("  The  Song  of  the  Shirt,")  Tennyson,  Bryant,  Leigh  Hunt,  Longfellow, 
Barry  Cornwall,  Holmes,  Kingsley,  Paine  ("  Home,  Sweet  Home  "),  Whittier, 
Browning,  Lowell,  Emerson,  "Willis,  and  Pinkney— expressly  con 
tributed  to  this  Work  by  the  Poets  or  their  friends. 

IN  ONE  VOLUME,  EOTAL  OCTAVO. 

Printed  on  the  finest  tinted  paper,  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co.,  at  the  Eiverside  Press, 

Cambridge,  and  superbly  bound  by  Matthews,  in  Turkey  morocco,  richly  gilt,  also  in 

antique  morocco,  and  morocco  elegant 

Price  of  each  style,  put  up  in  a  neat  box,  $10. 

In  this  volume,  which  has  been  several  years  in  preparation,  it  has  been  the  edi 
tor's  purpose  to  bring  together  over  two  hundred  famous  and  favorite  pieces  of  a 
purely  sympathetic  and  emotional  character — poems  which,  having  won  the  un 
qualified  praise  of  refined  criticism,  possess  also  a  peculiar  charm  for  the  popular 
heart.  "  He  cometh  unto  you  with  songs,  which  hold  children  from  play,  and  old 
men  from  the  chimney  corner."  In  the  table  of  contents,  among  fine  poems  of  a 
more  recent  date,  the  reader  will  recognize  many  a  rare  old  bit  of  poesy,  which, 
though  affectionately  remembered,  he  would  have  been  at  a  loss  where  to  look  for ; 
and  we  cannot  better  give  an  idea  of  the  arrangement  of  the  collection,  than  by  com 
paring  it  to  the  composition  of  an  exquisite  bouquet.  The  work  is  illustrated  by 
about  twenty  young  and  clever  American  Artists,  who  have  entered  upon  the  task 
with  zealous  interest  and  a  lively  spirit  of  emulation.  The  designs  exhibit  raro 
beauty  and  originality.  Among  the  artists  are 

CHUECH,  EASTMAN  JOHNSON,  KENSETT, 

McENTEE,  HILL,  BAEEY,  EYTIXGE,  BOUGHTON, 

DAELEY,  McDONOUGH,  PAESOXS,  WALLIN,  HOPPIX, 

McLENAN,    MEFFEET,    HENNESSY,    NAST,    and    others. 

The  Editor  thus  puts  within  every  man's  reach,  a  book  which  combines  at  once 
the  most  scholarly  refinements,  the  tendcrest  home  associations,  and  admirable  speci 
mens  of  artistic  grace.  Just  such  a  book  as  this  collection  of  "  Folk-Songs,"  has 
never  before  been  published;  and  we  are  sure  that  it  will  be  welcomed  with  lively 
interest  by  all  r«adera  »f  cultivation  in  literature  and  art 

Ir 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 


AN    AMEBICAN    STOET 


BY 

J.  G.  HOLLAND, 


AUTHOn     OF 


1  THE    BAY    PATH,"   "  BITTER    SWEET,"   "  THE    TITCOilB    LETTEKS," 
"GOLD   FOIL,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER,  124   GRAND   STREET. 

LONDON:  SAMPSON  LOW,  SON  &  CO. 

I860. 


LIBRARY 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1860, 

By  CHARLES  SCBIBNEK, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  ttew  York. 


JOHX  F.  TROW, 

HITTER,  8TEHEOTYPER,  AND  ELECTROTYPES, 

46,  48  &  50  Greene  Street, 
New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  Crampton  Light  Infantry  and  the  Chalk  Planetarium,  I 

II.  Miss  Gilbert  visits  the  sky,  and  little  Venus  takes  up  her 

permanent  residence  there,  %  .  .18 

III.  Hucklebury  Eun  and  its  enterprising  proprietor,  1  .*•.-,       83 

IY.  Arthur  Blague  gets  his  hand  in,  and  the  proprietor  meets 

with  an  unexpected  revolution,       .        ......  .        51 

V.  Dr.  Gilbert  and  his  daughter  "  come  to  an  understanding."  74 

VI.  The  Mistress  of   Hucklebury  Eun  and  her  accomplished 

daughter, 92 

VII.  In  which  the  Centre  School  of  Crampton  is  handsomely  pro 
vided  for,    .  .  .  .....       .  114 

VIII.  Mrs.  Buggies  spreads  her  motherly  wings  over  Arthur,  and  is 

ungratefully  repulsed,  .  .  .  .  .129 

IX.  Miss  Gilbert  completes  her  novel— a  great  success  in  the  opin 
ion  of  her  friends, ......  146 

X.  Dr.  Gilbert  among  the  New  York  publishers,    .  .  .163 

XI.  Tristram  Trevanion  is  accepted,  and  Dr.  Gilbert  is  rejected,        187 

XII.  Arthur  Blague  is  introduced  to  a  new  boarding-house,  and 

Dan  Buck  is  introduced  to  the  reader,  .  .  .  208 

XIII.  Dan  Buck  goes  to  church  and  recognizes  an  old  acquaintance,      226 

XIV.  Tristram  Trevanion  gets  reviewed,  and  Miss  Gilbert  gets  dis 

gusted, 243 


IV  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XV.  Arthur  Blague  awakes  from  a  pleasant  dream. — So  do  Mr.  and 

Mrs.  Kuggles,       ......  267 

XVI.  Arthur's  dreams,  and  Hucklebury  Run  and  its  proprietor, 

come  to  dissolution,  .....      2S9 

XVII.  Philosophical,  but  important  to  the  story,  and  therefore  to  be 

read,  .......  802 

XVIII.  Mary  Hainmett's  father  has  a  very  exciting  time  in  Crampton,      312 

XIX.  Mr.  Kilgore  recovers  his  health,  and  his  daughter  recovers 

something  better,       ......      888 

XX.  "Which  contains  a  very  pleasant  wedding,  and  a  very  sad  acci 
dent,          .  .      ,__...$^e_._      ...  853 

XXI.  Being  a  bridge  longer  than  the  Victoria,  and  having  only  ten 

piers,     .  .  . '         ...  .      86S 

XXII.  Miss  Gilbert  gives  and  receives  very  decided  impressions,  8S2 

XXIII.  The  Crampton  Comet  reappears,  passes  its  perihelion  again, 

and  fades  out,        .    '*   ^^T^.Au:':-:-  £  n-OJJ,  KfcT^njL        §99 

XXIV.  Miss  Gilbert  receives  a  lesson  which  she  never  forgets,  an-1 

which  does  her  good  all  the  days  of  her  life,         .  .      414 

XXV.  In  which  Arthur  makes  a  great  many  new  friends,  and  loses 

the  most  precious  friend  he  has,    •*i'11 .  '•'••&   £TI.tou«f>  .       431 

XXVI.  Describing  an  event  of  the  greatest  interest  to  Arthur  Blague, 

Fanny  Gilbert,  and  the  reader,    tfKfuqftfg  fy*jf  :      •      449 

XXVII.  "Which  changes  the  relations  of  some  of  our  characters,  re 
lates  the  changes  of  others,  and  closes  the  book,  .      465 


MISS  GILBEKTS  OAEEEB. 


CHAPTEE   I. 

THE   CRAMPTON   LIGHT  INFANTRY   AND  THE  CHALK    PLANETA 
RIUM. 

DR.  THEOPHILUS  GILBERT  was  in  a  hurry.  He  had 
been  in  a  hurry  all  night.  Pie  had  been  in  a  hurry  all 
the  morning.  While  the  village  of  Crampton  was 
asleep,  he  had  amputated  the  limb  of  a  young  man  ten 
miles  distant,  attended  a  child  in  convulsions  on  his  way 
home,  and  assisted  in  introducing  into  existence  an  in 
fant  at  the  house  of  his  next-door  neighbor — how  sad 
an  existence — how  terrible  a  life — neither  he  nor  the 
poor  mother,  widowed  but  a  month,  could  imagine. 

Dr.  Gilbert  had  taken  an  early  breakfast,  and  still 
the  black  Canadian  pony,  with  his  bushy  head  down, 
the  long  hair  over  his  eyes,  and  his  shaggy  fetlocks 
splashed  with  mud,  flew  around  the  village  of  Cramp- 
ton,  bearing  the  doctor  in  his  gig,  and  stopping  here 
and  there  at  the  houses  of  his  patients  without  the 
straightening  of  a  rein,  as  if  the  pony  knew  quite  as 
1 


2  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEB: 

well  as  the  doctor  where  the  sick  people  were,  and  had 
a  private  interest  in  the  business. 

It  was  a  familiar  vision — this  of  the  doctor  and  his 
pony  and  his  gig.  They  had  been  intimately  associat 
ed  for  many  years,  and  formed  what  the  good  people 
of  Crampton  called  "  an  institution."  If  the  doctor 
had  died,  the  pony  and  the  gig  would  have  been  useless. 
If  the  gig  had  broken  down,  the  doctor  and  the  pony 
would  not  have  known  what  to  do.  If  the  pony  had  cast 
himself  in  his  stable,  (he  knew  too  much  for  that,)  and 
died  of  suffocation,  the  doctor  and  the  gig  could  never 
have  got  along  at  all.  The  gig  was  very  small — a  little, 
low-backed,  open  chair — and  how  the  doctor,  who  was 
a  large,  burly  man,  ever  sat  down  in  it,  was  a  mystery  to 
all  the  wondering  boys  of  the  village.  But  he  did  sit 
down  in  it  a  great  many  times  in  a  day  ;  and  the  stout 
springs  bore  him  lightly,  while  the  wheels  plunged  into 
the  ruts,  or  encountered  the  stones  of  the  street,  com 
municating  to  the  rider  a  gently  rising  and  falling  mo 
tion  as  he  sat  leaning  forward,  eager  to  get  on,  and 
ready  to  jump  off,  like  the  figure-head  of  a  ship,  riding 
an  easy-going  swell. 

Still  Dr.  Gilbert,  borne  by  the  pony  and  the  gig, 
hurried  about  the  village.  He  plunged  from  the  street 
into  the  house  of  a  patient,  and  then  plunged  from  the 
house  into  the  street,  and  repeated  the  process  so  many 
times  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  that,  had  his  limbs 
been  less  muscular,  he  would  have  dropped  with  fatigue. 
He  paused  but  a  moment  at  each  bedside,  and  when  he 
came  forth  from  it,  with  his  case  of  medicines  under  his 
arm,  and  a  doubtful,  aromatic  atmosphere  enveloping  him, 
his  strong  eyes  and  firmly  compressed  lips  expressed  haste 


AN   AMEEICAN   STOKY.  3 

and  determination,  as  if  they  said :  "  This  work  must  be 
done  at  once — all  done — done  so  that  there  may  be  no 
more  to  do  during  the  day." 

The  doctor's  business,  on  this  particular  morning, 
was  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  wholly  in  the  line  of  his 
profession.  In  truth,  it  had  not  been  for  a  week.  He 
had  patients,  certainly,  but  they  did  not  monopolize  his 
interest  and  attention.  The  young  man  whose  limb  he 
had  abbreviated  the  previous  night  was  told  by  the 
doctor,  in  his  most  sympathetic  tones,  that  he  would 
lose  a  great  privilege  in  not  being  able  to  attend  the 
exhibition.  The  little  girl  who  had  convulsions  was 
threatened,  soon  after  recovering  consciousness,  with 
being  kept  away  from  the  exhibition  if  she  did  not  take 
her  medicines  promptly.  Poor  Mrs.  Blague,  with  her 
baby  on  her  arm — fatherless  before  it  was  born — was 
commiserated  on  the  interference  of  the  event  of  its 
birth  with  her  enjoyment  of  the  exhibition,  and  assur 
ed  that  if  Mr.  Blague  were  alive,  such  an  exhibition 
would  do  his  heart  good.  Every  family  he  visited  was 
adjured  not  to  fail  of  attending  the  exhibition ;  and  the 
doctor  greeted  those  whom  he  met  in  the  street  with 
"  you  are  all  coming  out  to  the  exhibition,  of  course." 

Of  course,  everybody  was  going  to  the  exhibition ; 
for  the  doctor  was  a  driving  man,  and  when  he  under 
took  an  enterprise,  everybody  understood  that  it  would 
go  through.  He  was  willful,  opinionated,  industrious, 
indefatigable.  The  duties  of  his  profession  expended 
not  more  than  a  moiety  of  his  vital  supplies,  and  the 
surplus  sought  investment  on  every  hand.  He  was  a 
stirring  man  in  the  parish,  in  the  church,  and  in  all 
the  affairs  of  the  town.  He  was  a  stirring  man  in  the 


4  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

public  schools,  and  was,  in  fact,  the  leading  spirit 
in  them  all.  He  made  speeches  at  all  the  conventions 
of  his  town  and  county,  with  little  apparent  discrimi 
nation  of  their  objects.  In  order  to  be  always  employ 
ed,  he  had  studied  a  little  law,  obtained  an  appointment 
as  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and,  by  degrees,  had  become  a 
sort  of  general  administrator  of  the  estates  of  his  more 
unfortunate  patients. 

The  morning  wore  on,  and  the  doctor  at  length 
turned  in  at  his  own  gate,  and  turned  out  the  little 
black  pony.  Country  wagons  well  loaded  with  women 
and  children  began  to  enter  the  village.  Several  minis 
ters  from  neighboring  towns  drove  in,  and  alighted  at 
the  door  of  the  Crampton  parsonage.  First  came  Rev. 
Dr.  Bloomer,  a  very  large  man  with  a  very  large  shirt' 
collar  and  a  very  small  wife,  in  a  lop-sided  wagon,  weak 
in  the  springs.  Then  came  the  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter,  with 
Mrs.  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter,  whose  generous  physical  pro 
portions  produced  a  visible  depression  of  the  wagon- 
spring  over  which  she  sat,  the  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  mean 
while  sitting  very  erect  and  looking  very  severe  behind 
his  white  cravat  and  gold-bowed  spectacles,  as  if  he 
were  dangerous,  and  had  been  lashed  by  the  former  to 
the  back  of  his  seat,  and  the  latter  had  been  put  over 
his  eyes  for  shutters.  Following  these,  came  the  Rev. 
J.  Desilver  Newman,  a  young  sprig  of  divinity  in 
brown  gloves  and  a  smart  black  neck-tie,  without  any 
wife,  although,  judging  by  his  rather  dashing  toilet,  not 
altogether  unwilling  to  take  in  weight  sufficient  to  bal 
ance  his  wagon. 

Barefoot  boys  from  distant  farms  gathered  upon 
the  steps  of  the  old  church,  or  assembled  in  the  porch 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  5 

to  watch  the  sexton  while  he  rang  the  bell.  A  smiling 
old  man  with  a  bass-viol  under  his  arm,  and  a  grave 
young  man  with  a  flute  in  his  pocket,  passed  up  the 
steps,  entered  the  door,  and  were  soon  heard  tuning 
their  instruments,  and  performing  certain  very  uncertain 
flourishes,  in  which  the  flute  flew  very  high  and  the 
bass-viol  sank  very  low. 

The  bustle  was  increasing  every  moment.  Little 
children,  mysteriously  bundled  up,  were  deposited  at 
the  door  of  a  school-house  across  the  common  by  men 
and  women  who  handled  them  carefully,  as  if  they  were 
glass,  or  porcelain.  Then  Dr.  Gilbert  was  seen  to  issue 
from  his  house  and  to  enter  the  house  of  his  pastor, 
Rev.  Mr.  Wilton.  Then  he  was  seen  to  come  out  with 
Rev.  J.  Desilver  Newman,  followed  by  Rev.  Dr. 
Bloomer  and  wife,  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  and  wife,  and  Rev. 
Mr.  Wilton  and  wife,  the  last  of  whom  closed  and 
locked  the  door.  These  dignitaries,  instead  of  making 
their  way  to  the  church,  crossed  the  common  to  the 
school-house,  and  disappeared  within. 

The  church  filled  rapidly,  in  front  of  a  stage  tem 
porarily  erected,  and  covered  with  a  carpet  of  green 
baize.  The  only  occupants  of  the  stage  were  the  two 
musicians,  the  older  one  of  whom  relieved  his  embar 
rassment  by  drawing  his  bow  forward  and  backward 
upon  a  piece  of  rosin,  while  the  younger  continually 
took  his  flute  in  pieces  to  wet  the  joints,  and  then  put  it 
together  again,  and  squinted  along  its  length  to  see  if 
the  holes  were  in  range.  There  was  a  mysterious  dia 
gram  upon  the  carpet,  in  French  chalk,  that  taxed  the 
curiosity  of  every  eye,  and  provoked  unlimited  comment. 

At  length  the  bell  began  to  toll,  and  the  assembly, 


momentarily  augmenting,  and  momentarily  becoming 
excited  with  expectation,  looked  forth  from  the  old 
church-windows,  toward  the  school-house.  The  door  of 
the  school-house  was  opened  as  the  bell  closed  its  lazy 
summons,  and  the  curiosity  of  Crampton  was  on  tiptoe. 
First  appeared  Dr.  Gilbert  alone,  as  grand-marshal ; 
and  he  was  followed  by  all  the  clergymen  as  aids. 
Then  came  little  boys  dressed  in  extravagant  little 
dresses — crosses  between  trousers  and  petticoats — the 
stoutest  of  whom,  a  little  red-headed  fellow  of  five  sum 
mers,  bore  a  banner  inscribed  writh  the  words  : 

"  The  Crampton  Light  Infantry."" 

The  Crampton  Light  Infantry  did  not  march  very 
well,  it  must  be  confessed.  It  was  all  that  mothers  and 
the  wives  of  the  pastors  could  do  to  keep  them  in  line. 
One  little  boy  insisted  that  his  mother  should  carry 
him,  and  ultimately  carried  his  point.  Some  looked 
down  upon  their  clothes.  Some  looked  up,  and  around, 
to  see  who  might  be  looking  at  their  clothes.  Others, 
with  a  grave  thoughtfulness  sadly  beyond  their  years, 
seemed  impressed  with  the  proprieties  of  the  occasion, 
and,  among  these,  the  little  boy  with  golden  curls,  fair 
skin,  and  large,  dark  eyes,  who  brought  up  the  rear  of 
the  male  portion  of  the  procession,  and  who  bore  a 
second  banner  with  this  inscription  : 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  thence  an  infant  of  days — 
for  the  child  shall  die  a  hundred  years  old." 

Following  this  banner,  came  the  little  girls  in  pairs, 
their  eyes  bright  and  their  cheeks  flushed  with  excite- 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  7 

ment,  looking  like  so  many  blossoms  of  silk  and 
muslin.  Last  of  all — driving  her  flock  before  her — 
came  Miss  Fanny  Gilbert,  a  tall,  slender  girl  of  six 
teen, — queenly,  self-possessed,  and  triumphant. 

It  was  thirty  years  ago  that  this  very  sweet  and 
simple  pageant  moved  across  the  Crampton  common, 
under  a  bright,  August  sun ;  and  nothing  more  beauti 
ful  has  been  seen  upon  that  common  since.  It  was  dur 
ing  the  Infant  School  Epidemic  of  the  period,  that  Dr. 
Gilbert,  going  from  town  to  town,  had  taken  the  infec 
tion,  and  communicated  it  to  all  Crampton  ;  and  he  had 
selected  his  daughter  Fanny  as  the  best  instrument 
upon  which  he  could  lay  his  hand  to  effect  his  purposes. 
He  planned,  and  she  executed  ;  and  this,  the  great  day 
of  exhibition,  had  been  looked  forward  to  by  the  doc 
tor  with  intense  interest  for  many  weeks.  He  should 
now  demonstrate  his  own  foresight,  and  the  capacity  of 
the  youngest  minds  to  receive  and  retain  instruction. 
He  should  inaugurate  a  new  epoch  in  the  history  of  edu 
cation.  There  should  be  no  more  an  infant  of  days — 
of  years,  at  most — in  Crampton. 

The  procession  now  reached  the  church,  and  moved  up 
the  broad  aisle.  There  was  brisk  cheering  through  the 
house,  and  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  and  fluttering  of 
fans,  as  the  little  creatures  mounted  the  stage — a  place 
to  which  they  had  become  accustomed  by  several  visits 
for  rehearsal.  The  limited  orchestra  (already  alluded  to) 
had  intended  to  receive  the  procession  with  appropriate 
musical  demonstrations,  but  the  confusion  quite  con 
founded  them,  and  they  shrank  from  the  attempt. 

Order  was  at  last  secured.  Some  of  the  little  boys 
had  been  set  down  very  hard,  as  if  it  were  difficult  to 


8 

make  them  sit  still  unless  they  were  flattened.  Others 
were  pulled  out  from  among  the  girls,  and  made  to 
exchange  seats  with  girls  who  had  inadvertently  strayed 
off  with  the  boys.  All  were  perched  upon  benches  too 
high  for  them,  and  the  row  of  pantalets  in  front  looked 
very  much  as  if  they  were  hung  upon  a  clothes-line. 

Then  Dr.  Gilbert  came  forward,  and,  rapping  upon 
the  stage  three  times  with  his  cane,  called  the  assem 
bly  to  order.  They  had  gathered,  he  said,  to  witness 
one  of  the  distinguishing  characteristics  and  proudest 
triumphs  of  modern  civilization.  It  had  been  supposed 
that  the  time  of  children  less  than  five  years  old  must 
necessarily  be  wasted  in  play — that  the  golden  moments 
of  infancy  must  be  forever  lost.  That  time  was  past. 
As  the  result  of  modern  improvement,  and  among  the 
achievements  of  modern  progress,  it  had  appeared  that 
even  the  youngest  minds  were  capable  of  receiving 
ideas,  and  that  education  may  actually  be  begun  at  the 
maternal  breast,  pursued  in  the  cradle,  and  forwarded 
in  the  nursery  to  a  point  beyond  the  power  of  imagi 
nation  at  present  to  conceive.  It  was  in  these  first 
years  of  life  that  there  had  been  a  great  waste  of  time. 
He  saw  children  before  him,  in  the  audience,  older  than 
any  upon  the  stage,  who  had  no  knowledge  of  arithme 
tic  and  geography — children,  the  most  of  whom  had 
never  heard  the  word  astronomy  pronounced.  While 
these  precious  little  ones  had  been  improving  their 
time,  there  were  those  before  him  whom  he  had  seen 
engaged  in  fishing,  others  in  playing  at  ball,  and 
others  still,  little  girls,  doing  nothing,  but  amusing 
themselves  with  their  dolls  !  He  had  but  a  word  to 
add.  There  were  others  who  would  address  them  be- 


AN  AMEKICAN   STOKY.  9 

fore  the  close  of  the  exercises.  He  offered  the  exhibition 
as  a  demonstration  of  the  feasibleness  of  infant  instruc 
tion.  He  trusted  he  offered  it  in  a  humble  spirit ;  but 
he  felt  that  he  was  justified  in  pointing  to  it  as  an  effec 
tual  condemnation  of  those  parents  who  had  denied  to 
their  infants  the  privilege  of  attending  the  school. 

Administering  this  delicate  rap  upon  the  knuckles 
of  such  parents  as  had  chosen  to  take  charge  of  their 
own  "  infants,"  the  doctor  turned  to  Rev.  Mr.  Wilton, 
and  invited  him  to  lead  the  audience  in  prayer.  Like 
many  prayers  offered  to  the  Omniscient,  on  occasions 
like  this,  the  prayer  of  Mr.  Wilton  conveyed  a  great 
deal  of  information  pertinent  to  the  occasion,  to  the 
Being  whom  he  addressed,  and,  incidentally  of  course, 
to  the  congregation. 

It  was  now  Miss  Gilbert's  office  to  engage  the 
audience ;  and  her  little  troop  of  infantry  was  put 
through  its  evolutions  and  exercises,  to  the  astonish 
ment  and  delight  of  all  beholders.  They  sang  songs ; 
they  repeated  long  passages  of  poetry  in  concert ;  they 
went  through  the  multiplication  table  to  the  tune  of 
Yankee  Doodle ;  they  answered  with  the  shrill,  sing 
song  voice  of  parrots  all  sorts  of  questions  in  geog 
raphy  ;  they  recited  passages  of  Scripture ;  they  gave  an 
account  of  the  creation  of  the  world  and  of  the  Ameri 
can  Revolution ;  they  told  the  story  of  the  birth  of 
Christ,  and  spelled  words  of  six  syllables ;  they  added, 
they  multiplied,  they  subtracted,  they  divided ;  they 
told  what  hemisphere,  what  continent,  what  country, 
what  state,  what  county,  what  town,  they  lived  in ; 
they  repeated  the  names  of  the  Presidents  of  the  United 
States  and  the  Governors  of  the  Commonwealth ;  they 
1* 


10  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

acted  a  little  drama  of  Moses  in  the  Bulrushes ;  and 
they  did  many  other  things,  till,  all  through  the  au 
dience,  astonishment  grew  into  delight,  and  delight 
grew  into  rapture. 

"  Most  astonishing ! "  exclaimed  Rev.  Dr.  Bloomer. 

"  Very  remarkable  !  "  responded  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter. 

"  Perfectly — ah — beats  every  thing  I  ever  saw  !  " 
said  Rev.  J.  Desilver  Newman,  very  flush  of  enthu 
siasm  and  very  short  of  adverbs. 

Dr.  Gilbert  calmly  surveyed  his  triumph,  or  turned 
from  one  to  another  of  the  pastors  upon  the  stage,  as 
some  new  and  surprising  development  of  juvenile  acqui 
sition  was  exhibited,  with  a  nod  of  the  head  and  a  smile 
which  indicated  that  he  was  indeed  a  little  surprised  him 
self.  He  had  never  been  so  proud  of  his  daughter  as  then. 
Rev.  J.  Desilver  Newman  was  also  receiving  powerful 
impressions  with  regard  to  the  same  young  woman. 
In  fact,  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to  wonder  how  much 
money  Dr.  Gilbert  might  be  worth ;  but  then,  he  had 
gone  as  far  as  this  with  a  hundred  other  young  women, 
and  come  back  safe. 

The  musicians,  who  had  been  kept  pretty  closely  at 
work  accompanying  the  children  in  their  songs,  moved 
back  their  chairs  at  a  hint  from  Miss  Gilbert,  and  took 
a  position  behind  the  pulpit.  There  was  a  general 
moving  of  benches  and  making  ready  for  the  closing 
scene  and  the  crowning  glory  of  the  exhibition — a  rep 
resentation  of  the  solar  system  on  green  baize,  by 
bodies  that  revolved  on  two  legs. 

The  mystery  of  the  chalk  planetarium  was  solved. 
Out  of  a  chaos  of  frocks  and  juvenile  breeches,  Miss 
Gilbert  proceeded  to  evoke  the  order  of  a  sidereal  system. 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  11 

"  The  Sun  will  take  his  place,"  said  Miss  Gilbert ; 
and  immediately  the  red-headed  boy,  who  bore  the  ban 
ner  of  "  The  Crampton  Light  Infantry,"  stepped  to  the 
centre'  of  the  planetarium,  with  a  huge  ball  in  his  hand, 
mounted  upon  the  end  of  a  tall  stick.  Taking  his  stand 
upon  the  chalk  sun,  and  elevating  the  sphere  above  a 
head  that  would  have  answered  the  purpose  of  a  sun 
quite  as  well,  he  set  it  whirling  on  its  axis ;  and  thus 
came  the  centre  of  the  system  into  location  and  into 
office. 

"  Mercury  !  "  said  Miss  Gilbert ;  and  out  came  a 
smart  little  chap  with  a  smaller  ball  in  his  hand,  and 
began  walking  obediently  around  the  chalk  circle  next 
the  sun. 

"  Venus  !  "  and  sweet  little  Venus  rose  out  of  the 
waves  of  muslin  tossing  on  the  side  of  the  stage,  and 
took  the  next  circle. 

"  Earth  and  her  Satellite  !  "  called  forth  a  boy  and 
a  girl,  the  latter  playing  moon  to  the  boy's  earth,  re 
volving  around  him  as  he  revolved  around  the  sun,  and 
with  great  astronomical  propriety  making  faces  at  him. 

Mars  was  called  for,  and  it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  the  red  planet  was  very  pale  and  very  weary-looking. 

"  Jupiter  and  his  Satellites  !  "  and  the  boy  Jupiter 
walked  upon  the  charming  circle  with  a  charming  circle 
of  little  girls  revolving  around  him. 

So  Saturn  with  its  seven  moons,  and  Georgium 
Sidus,  otherwise  Herschel,  otherwise  Uranus,  with  its 
six  attendant  orbs,  took  their  places  on  the  verge  of 
the  system,  and  slowly,  very  slowly,  moved  around  the 
common  centre.  But  there  was  one  orbit  still  unfilled, 
and  that  was  a  very  eccentric  one.  It  was  not  all  de- 


12 

scribed  upon  the  green  baize  carpet,  but  left  it,  and 
retired  behind  the  pulpit,  and  was  lost. 

The  system  was  in  motion,  and,  watching  every 
revolving  body  in  it,  stood  the  system's  queen,  indicating 
by  her  finger  that  Uranus  should  go  slower,  or  Mercury 
faster,  and  striving  to  keep  order  among  the  subjects 
of  her  realm.  The  music  meantime  grew  dreamy  and 
soft,  in  an  attempt  to  suggest  what  is  called  "  the  music 
of  the  spheres,"  if  any  reader  happens  to  know  what 
kind  of  music  that  is.  Heavenly  little  bodies  indeed 
they  were,  and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  many  eyes 
moistened  with  sensibility  as  they  mingled  so  grace 
fully  and  so  harmoniously  upon  the  plane  of  vision. 

Still  the  eccentric  orbit  was  without  an  occupant, 
and  no  name  was  called.  At  last,  a  pair  of  large  dark 
eyes  appeared  from  behind  the  pulpit,  and  behind  the 
eyes  a  head  of  golden  hair,  and  behind  the  head  a 
wreath  of  floating,  golden  curls.  This  was  the  unbidden 
comet,  advancing  slowly  toward  the  Sun,  almost  creep 
ing  at  first,  then  gradually  increasing  his  velocity,  intent 
on  coming  in  collision  with  no  other  orb,  smiling  not, 
seeing  nothing  of  the  audience  before  him,  and  yet 
absorbing  the  attention  of  every  eye  in  the  house.  The 
doctor's  eyes  beam  with  unwonted  interest.  Miss 
Gilbert  forgets  Mars  and  Venus,  and  looks  only  at  the 
comet.  At  last,  the  comet  darts  around  its  perihelion, 
and  the  golden  curls  are  turned  to  the  audience  in  full 
retreat  toward  the  unknown  region  of  space  behind  the 
pulpit  from  whence  it  had  proceeded. 

The  house  rang  with  cheers,  and  the  doctor  was 
prouder  than  before ;  for  this  was  his  little  son  Fred, 
the  bearer  of  the  banner  with  the  long  inscription,  Miss 


AN    AMERICAN    STOEY.  13 

Gilbert's  darling  brother,  and  the  brightest  ornament 
of  the  Crampton  Light  Infantry. 

Miss  Gilbert  clapped  her  hands  three  times,  and  her 
system  dissolved — returned  to  its  original  elements — 
and  stepping  forward  to  her  father,  she  announced  that 
her  exhibition  was  closed. 

Rev.  Dr.  Bloomer  was  then  informed  that  there 
was  an  opportunity  for  remarks.  He  rose,  and  ad 
dressed  the  assembly  with  much  apparent  emotion. 
"  We  have  seen  strange  things  to-day,"  said  Rev.  Dr. 
Bloomer.  "  We  have  seen  a  millennial  banner  waving 
in  Crampton,  and  a  millennial  exhibition  within  the 
walls  of  the  Crampton  church.  There  shall  be  no 
more  hence — you  will  observe  that  I  say  hence,  not 
thence — an  infant  of  days,  for  the  children  of  Crampton 
shall  die  a  hundred  years  old." 

Dr.  Bloomer  said  that  he  did  not  feel  authorized  to 
speak  for  others,  but  he  felt  that  he  had  learned  much 
from  the  exhibition.  He  felt  that  he  should  go  away 
from  it  a  wiser  man,  with  new  apprehensions  of  the 
powers  of  the  human  soul,  and  the  preciousness  of  time. 
The  hour  was  coming,  he  doubted  not,  in  the  progress 
of  the  race,  when  knowledge  would  be  so  simplified, 
and  the  modes  of  imparting  it  would  become  so  well 
adapted  to  the  young  mind,  that  the  child  of  five  would 
begin  his  process  of  education  where  the  fathers  left  off 
theirs.  These  little  ones  had  already  taught  him  many 
things,  and  God  would  perfect  his  own  praise  out  of  the 
mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings. 

Then  turning  to  Miss  Gilbert,  he  thanked  her  for 
himself,  and  assumed  to  thank  her  on  behalf  of  the 
audience,  for  the  great  gratification  she  had  given  him 


and  them,  and  for  the  example  of  usefulness  and  indus 
try  she  had  set  those  of  her  own  sex  and  age  in  the 
community.  "  Young  woman,"  said  Rev.  Dr.  Bloom 
er,  with  an  emphasis  that  brought  the  tears  to  Miss 
Gilbert's  eyes,  "  you  have  a  career  before  you.  May 
God  bless  you  in  it !  " 

Then  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  rose  to  make  only  "  a  few 
little  remarks,"  as  he  modestly  characterized  them.  He 
had  been  particularly  struck  with  the  other  banner ; 
and,  while  his  Brother  Bloomer  was  disposed  to  take 
the  millennial  view  of  the  subject,  he  was  inclined  to  the 
military.  These  children  were  undertaking  the  battle  of 
life  early.  They  had  enlisted  under  a  captain  who 
had  already  led  them  to  a  victory  prouder  than  any 
ever  achieved  by  a  Cresar  or  a  Napoleon — an  American 
Joan  of  Arc,  whose  career  of  usefulness,  if  she  should 
keep  her  sword  bright,  and  her  escutcheon  untarnished, 
would  far  surpass  in  glory  that  of  the  world-renowned 
heroine  whose  name  he  had  mentioned.  Heaven 
forbid  that  he  should  flatter  any  one.  He  despised  a 
flatterer  ;  but  he  felt  that  he  was  honoring  Caesar  and 
Napoleon  and  Joan  of  Arc  in  their  graves  by  mentioning 
their  names  in  connection  with  such  achievements  as  he 
had  witnessed  on  that  occasion. 

It  is  true  that  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  rather  mixed  things, 
in  his  more  ambitious  rhetorical  flourishes,  on  all  occa 
sions  ;  but  the  language  sounded  well,  and,  being  ac 
companied  with  appropriately  magnificent  action,  it 
was  accustomed  to  bring  down  the  house.  It  did  not 
fail  before  the  Crampton  audience ;  but  the  rounding 
of  his  period  left  him  vacant.  Standing  back,  as  if  to 
wait  for  the  subsidence  of  the  applause,  his  mind 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  15 

retired  behind  his  glasses,  and  thrust  out  its  antennae  in 
every  direction  to  feel  for  his  theme,  but  he  could  not 
find  it. 

In  his  desperation  he  turned,  at  last,  to  the  chil 
dren,  and  said  in  his  blandest  tones  :  "  Little  children, 
can  you  tell  me  who  Caesar  and  Napoleon  and  Joan  of 
Arc  were  ?  " 

"  Caesar  is  the  name  of  my  dog,"  responded  the  little 
golden-haired  comet. 

"  Napoleon  is  the  name  of  my  dog,"  cried  Mars. 

There  was  an  awful  pause — a  suppressed  titter — 
when  precious  little  Venus,  in  a  shrill  voice,  with  an  ex 
ceedingly  knowing  look  in  her  face,  said  that  "  Joan  of 
Arc  was  the  name  of  the  dog  that  Noah  saved  from  the 
flood !  " 

What  wonder  that  Crampton  roared  with  laughter  ? 
What  wonder  that  Kev.  Dr.  Bloomer  shook  with 
powerful  convulsions  ?  What  wonder  that  Mrs. 
Bloomer  and  Mrs.  Wilton  nudged  each  other  *?  What 
wonder  that  Dr.  Gilbert  and  Miss  Fanny  Gilbert  bit 
their  lips  with  mingled  vexation  and  mirth  ?  W^hat 
wonder  that  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  grew  red  in  the  face  ? 

But  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  was  up.  The  sole  question 
with  him  was  how  to  sit  down.  What  should  he  say  ? 
He  waited  until  the  laughter  had  subsided,  and  then  he 
told  the  children  they  had  not  got  to  that  yet,  but  their 
excellent  teacher  would  doubtless  tell  them  all  about 
it  the  next  term. 

"  The  next  term  !  "  The  speaker  had  found  a 
theme ;  for  he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  "  improve  "  all 
occasions  of  public  speech  for  giving  religious  instruc 
tion.  From  the  next  term  of  school,  he  easily  went 


16 

over  to  the  next  term  of  existence,  and  told  the  Cramp- 
ton  Light  Infantry  that,  in  order  to  make  that  a  happy 
term,  they  must  all  become  Soldiers  of  the  Cross,  and 
fight  valiantly  the  battles  of  the  church  militant.  Then 
Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  generously  declared  that  he  would 
occupy  the  time  no  longer,  but  would  "  make  way  for 
others." 

Rev.  J.  Desilver  Newman  rose,  and  came  forward. 
He  was  very  red  in  the  face  and  very  shaky  in  the  knees. 
He  regretted  that  he  was  left  without  a  banner,  there 
having  been  but  two  in  the  procession,  and  those  hav 
ing  been  appropriated  by  the  gentlemen  who  had  pre 
ceded  him.  He  took  it  as  a  hint  that  he  should  say  but 
little,  and  he  should  say  but  little.  The  children  were 
tired,  and  were  eager  for  their  refreshments.  He 
would  not  detain  them.  He  owed  it  to  himself,  how 
ever,  to  say,  that  no  man  could  be  more  sensible  than 
he  of  the  splendor  of  the  achievements  of  these  chil 
dren,  and  of  their  accomplished  instructress.  Though 
he  had  no  children  himself,  he  was  interested  in  the 
rising  generation,  and  was  a  convert  to  infant  schools. 
He  should  have  one  organized  immediately  in  Littleton 
on  his  arrival  home.  He  would  further  gratify  his  sense 
of  justice  by  saying  that  he  fully  agreed  with  the  gen 
tleman  who  had  preceded  him,  in  the  opinion  that  the 
young  lady  who  had  shown  such  remarkable  ability  in 
training  and  instructing  these  children,  had  the  power 
of  achieving  a  great  career. 

Mr.  Newman  sat  down,  having  said  a  great  deal 
more  than  he  expected  to  when  he  rose.  Half  a  dozen 
children  had  fallen  asleep  upon  their  benches.  Two  or 
three  had  begun  to  cry.  The  remainder  were  tired  and 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  17 

in  confusion.  Rev.  Mr.  Wilton,  a  quiet,  sensible  man, 
had  intended  to  say  something,  but,  seeing  the  condition 
of  things,  came  forward  and  pronounced  a  benediction 
upon  the  audience,  and  the  exhibition  was  at  a  close. 

Of  the  gorging  of  fruits  and  sweetmeats  that  follow 
ed  in  the  grove  back  of  Dr.  Gilbert's  house,  nothing 
needs  to  be  said.  As  evening  came  on,  the  throng  sep 
arated,  and  the  little  ones  went  cross  and  very  weary 
to  their  homes. 

The  ministers  and  their  wives,  the  minister  without 
a  wife,  and  the  doctor  and  his  daughter,  took  tea  quietly 
at  the  parsonage  after  all  was  over,  and  one  by  one,  the 
clerical  wagons,  still  very  badly  balanced,  were  driven 
out  of  the  village. 

Miss  Gilbert  had  commenced  her  career. 


18 


CHAPTEE   II. 

MISS   GILBERT  VISITS   THE    SKY,    AND  LITTLE  VENTS  TAKES  UP 
HEE  PERMANENT  RESIDENCE  THEEE. 

WHERE  was  Fanny  Gilbert's  mother  during  the  ex 
hibition  1  What  could  keep  the  mother  of  little  Fred 
away  ?  She  was  asleep — she  was  resting.  She  had 
been  asleep  for  two  years.  She  had  rested  quietly  in 
the  Crampton  graveyard  during  all  this  time,  "  making 
up  lost  sleep."  She  had  been  hurried  through  life,  and 
hurried  out  of  life.  She  had  bent  every  energy  to  realize 
to  Dr.  Gilbert  his  idea  of  a  woman  and  a  wife.  She 
had  ambitiously  striven  to  match  him  in  industry — to 
keep  at  his  side  in  all  the  enterprises  he  undertook ; 
but  her  stock  of  strength  failed  her  in  mid-passage,  and 
she  had  fallen  by  the  way.  She  had  known  no  rest — 
no  repose.  There  was  not  a  room  nor  a  piece  of  furni 
ture  in  her  house  that  did  not  give  evidence  of  her  tire 
less  care.  Her  Sabbath  was  no  day  of  rest  to  her.  She 
taught,  she  visited  the  poor,  she  managed  the  village 
sewing-circle,  she  circulated  subscription-papers  for  char 
ities,  she  attended  all  the  religious  meetings  in  sunshine 
and  storm ;  and  what  with  maternal  associations,  and 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  19 

watchings  with  the  sick,  and  faithful  care  of  her  own 
family,  she  wore  herself  quite  away,  and  faded  out  from 
Dr.  Gilbert's  home,  and  from  the  sight  of  her  children. 

Everybody  mourned  when  good  Mrs.  Gilbert  died, 
but  everybody  drew  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction,  as  if 
it  were  pleasant,  after  all,  to  think  that  she  was  resting, 
and  that  nobody  could  wake  her. 

Her  death  shocked  Dr.  Gilbert,  but  it  did  not  stop 
him.  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  to  plunge  into  the 
w^ork  of  life  with  fresh  energy.  He  could  not  pause 
for  an  instant  now.  New  schemes  for  the  employment 
of  his  time  were  devised.  The  temporary  paralysis  of 
grief  terrified  him.  To  stand  still,  to  cherish  and  linger 
about  a  sorrow — this  he  could  not  bear.  He  must  act 
— act  all  the  time — or  die.  People  who  looked  on  said 
that  Dr.  Gilbert  was  trying  to  "  work  it  off."  He  fan 
cied  that  there  was  no  way  by  which  he  could  so  appro 
priately  show  his  grief  for  her  as  by  following  her  ex 
ample. 

"  Aunt  Catharine,"  sister  of  the  sleeping  wife  and 
mother,  kept  house  for  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  did  what  she 
could  for  the  children.  This  was  very  little,  for  the 
doctor  had  his  own  ideas  about  their  training,  which  he 
allowed  no  one  to  interfere  with. 

It  was  supposed  by  the  gossips  of  the  village  that 
Dr.  Gilbert  would  ultimately  marry  Aunt  Catharine ; 
but  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  ever  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing.  She  was  a  woman  who,  if  we  may  credit  her 
own  declaration,  "  never  loved  a  man,  and  never  feared 
one."  It  was  pretty  certain  that  she  did  not  love  the 
doctor,  and  quite  as  certain  that  she  did  not  fear  him. 
She  held  his  restlessness  in  a  kind  of  contemptuous  hor- 


20  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEE: 

ror,  and  felt  herself  irresistibly  drawn  into  antagonism 
with  him.  She  loved  his  children,  and  served  them 
affectionately  and  devotedly  for  the  mother's  sake  ;  but 
the  doctor  always  aroused  her  to  opposition.  If  he 
spoke,  she  contradicted  him,  or  felt  moved  to  do  so. 
If  he  acted,  she  opposed  him,  or  desired  to  oppose  him. 
She  was  neither  cross-grained  nor  malicious ;  but  a  will 
that  acknowledged  no  ruler,  and  that  did  not  recognize 
her  existence  any  more  than  if  she  had  been  a  house-fly, 
bred  an  element  of  perverseness  in  her  character. 

Of  course,  Aunt  Catharine  was  not  an  admirer  of 
infant  schools.  She  had  not  attended  the  exhibition. 
Possibly  she  would  have  liked  to  see  Fanny  and  Fred, 
but  she  would  not  humor  Dr.  Gilbert.  Accordingly, 
when  he  and  Fanny  walked  into  the  house,  after  bid 
ding  the  people  of  the  parsonage  good-night,  they  by  no 
means  anticipated  a  cordial  greeting. 

Aunt  Catharine  had  very  black  eyes,  set  in  a  sharp, 
honest,  sensible  face,  and  they  looked  very  black  indeed 
that  night.  Now  there  was  an  infallible  index  to  the 
condition  of  Aunt  Catharine's  mind,  which  both  father 
and  daughter  perfectly  understood.  When  she  was 
knitting  very  slowly,  and  rocking  herself  very  fast,  they 
knew  that  a  storm  was  brewing  in  the  domestic  sky ; 
when  she  was  rocking  very  slowly,  and  knitting  very 
fast,  the  elements  were  at  peace. 

When  they  entered  the  parlor,  the  rocking-chair  was 
in  furious  action,  and  the  knitting-needles  were  making 
very  indifferent  progress. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  it's  done,  and  over,  and  through 
with,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Catharine,  decidedly. 

"  Done,  and  over,  and  through  with,  eh  ?    And  fin- 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  21 

ished,  and  performed,  and  consummated,  I  suppose," 
responded  the  doctor  with  a  pleasant  sarcasm. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  it's  done,  then." 

"  Done  1 "  said  the  doctor  with  emphasis.  "  Done  1 
It's  only  begun." 

"  You'll  find  it's  only  begun,  I  guess,  before  the 
week  is  out,"  replied  the  woman.  "  Do  you  suppose 
the  little  babies  you've  been  tormenting  in  church  all 
day  will  get  through  the  week  without  being  sick  ? 
There  was  poor  little  Fred,  who  was  so  tired  that  he 
could  not  go  to  sleep,  and  cried  for  an  hour  before  he 
shut  his  eyes." 

"  A  little  natural,  childish  excitement,"  said  the 
doctor,  a  shadow  of  apprehension  coming  over  his  face 
unbidden.  "  He  will  be  rested  and  all  right  in  the 
morning." 

"  Dr.  Gilbert,"  said  Aunt  Catharine,  laying  aside  her 
knitting,  and  raising  her  forefinger  excitedly,  "  I  have 
been  longing  to  speak  my  mind  for  a  month  about  this 
business,  and  now  I  am  going  to  speak  it,  and  I  want 
Fanny  to  hear  me." 

"  Well,  be  quick  about  it,"  said  the  doctor  impa 
tiently,  "  for  I  have  a  good  deal  of  writing  to  do  to-night, 
and  time  is  short.  Besides,  Fanny  is  tired,  I  imagine." 

"  Yes,  you  always  have  work  to  do,  and  time  is  al 
ways  short,  and  Fanny  is  always  tired.  It  was  always 
so  when  your  wife  was  living,  and  it  is  about  her  that 
I'm  going  to  speak.  You  had  as  good  a  wife,  Dr.  Gil 
bert,  as  a  man  ever  had,  if  she  was  my  sister  ;  and  she 
might  just  as  well  be  alive  now,  and  sitting  in  this  room, 
as  to  be  lying  in  the  graveyard  yonder.  I  don't  say 
you  killed  her,  but  I  say  the  life  she  led  killed  her,  and 


22  MISS  GILBERT'S  CABEER: 

the  life  she  led  was  the  life  you  marked  out  for  her,  and 
encouraged  her  to  lead.  Mind  you,  Dr.  Gilbert,  I  don't 
say  this  to  taunt  you.  What's  done  can't  be  helped. 
I  can't  bring  her  back,  and  if  it  were  to  recall  her  to  her 
old  restless  life  of  work,  work,  work,  I  wouldn't  bring 
her  back  if  I  could.  She's  better  where  she  is.  No,  sir, 
I  wouldn't  lift  my  finger  to  call  her  from  the  grave,  if 
that  would  do  it.  What  I  say,  I  say  for  her  children. 
They  are  going  on  in  the  same  way.  Fanny  is  working 
herself  to  death.  If  she  had  not  your  constitution,  she 
would  be  lying  by  the  side  of  her  mother  now.  Think 
of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  with  her  education  finished,  and  the 
work  of  her  life  begun !  It's  awful,  it's  shameful,  it's 
outrageous.  And  there  is  your  precious  little  boy,  only 
five  years  old — his  mother's  boy.  He's  just  as  sure  to 
die  before  his  time  as  you  keep  on  with  him  in  the  way 
you  have  begun — heating  his  brains  with  arithmetic  and 
geography  and  history  and  comets,  and  all  sorts  of  stuff, 
that  children  have  no  more  business  with  than  they 
have  with  your  medicine-case,  and  showing  him  up  to  a 
church  full  of  people,  and  getting  him  so  excited  that  he 
can't  sleep,  and  keeping  him  shut  up  in  a  school-room 
all  day,  when  he  ought  to  be  at  home  playing  in  the 
dirt." 

Aunt  Catharine  said  all  this  impetuously,  with  tears 
that  came  and  went  in  her  eyes  without  once  dropping. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  inquired  the  doctor  coolly. 

"  It's  God's  truth,  what  there  is  of  it,  any  way,"  re 
plied  the  excited  woman. 

What  he  would  have  said  if  Fanny  had  not  been 
present,  he  did  not  say ;  so,  with  forced  calmness,  he 
simply  responded :  "  Well,  well,  Catharine,  we'll  not 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  23 

quarrel ;  but  I  think  I  understand  these  matters  better 
than  you,  and  I  propose  to  manage  my  children,  and 
conduct  their  education  as  I  think  best." 

Aunt  Catharine  had  "  spoken  her  mind,"  and,  as 
usual  on  such  occasions,  was  aware  that  she  had  made 
no  impression — produced  no  effect.  But  she  felt  better. 
The  fire  was  spent,  and  turning  kindly  to  Fanny,  she 
told  her  that  she  was  looking  very  weary,  and  had  bet 
ter  retire.  Then,  gathering  up  her  knitting,  she  went 
up  stairs  to  her  own  room. 

Father  and  daughter  sat  a  while  in  silence,  the  latter 
waiting  for  the  former  to  speak ;  but  he  turned  to  his 
little  desk,  and  was  soon  busy  with  his  papers. 

As  Fanny  rose  and  bade  him  "  Good  night,"  he  said, 
without  lifting  his  head :  "  You  had  better  look  in  and 
see  how  Fred  is." 

The  fatigues  of  the  day  showed  themselves  plainly  in 
the  girl's  heavy  eyes,  pale  lips,  and  languid  motions,  as 
she  left  the  room,  lamp  in  hand,  and  climbed  the  stair 
way.  The  excitement  that  had  held  her  up  for  weeks 
was  gone,  and  the  natural  reaction,  with  the  warning 
words  her  aunt  had  spoken,  and  the  reawakened  memo 
ries  of  her  dead  mother,  filled  her  with  the  most  op 
pressive  sadness.  Vague  dissatisfaction,  undefinable 
unrest,  took  the  place  of  ambitious  aspiration,  and  the 
delight  of  strong  powers  in  full  exercise. 

In  accordance  with  her  habit,  not  less  than  in  obedi 
ence  to  the  suggestion  of  her  father,  she  took  her  way  to 
her  room  through  the  chamber  of  little  Fred.  He  lay 
moaning  and  feverish  upon  his  pillow,  his  fair  cheeks 
flushed,  and  his  hands  tossing  restlessly.  She  was  too 
weary  to  sit  by  him,  so  she  unconsciously  repeated  the 


24  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

words  of  her  father  :  "  A  little  natural,  childish  excite 
ment.  He  will  be  rested  and  all  right  in  the  morning." 
Then  she  kissed  his  hot  lips,  and  passed  into  her  own 
chamber. 

She  was  so  weary  that  she  could  hardly  wait  to  pre 
pare  for  her  bed ;  but  when  she  lay  down,  sleep  came 
quickly — a  kind  of  half  sleep,  half  swoon,  that  went  al 
most  as  quickly  as  it  came.  After  a  time,  which  seemed 
very  long,  but  which  was,  in  fact,  very  short,  she  found 
herself,  almost  instantaneously,  painfully  wide  awake,  as 
if  sleep  had  snatched  and  strained  her  to  its  bosom,  and 
then  thrown  her  hopelessly  off. 

Then  all  the  scenes  and  all  the  triumphs  of  the  day 
thronged  her  mind.  She  was  again  in  the  church.  Ad 
miring  eyes  were  upon  her ;  she  heard  the  applause 
again ;  and  again  the  flush  of  gratified  pride  warmed 
her  heart  and  her  cheeks,  as  she  recalled  the  words  of 
praise  that  were  spoken  to  her  in  the  presence  of  her  as 
sociates.  Again  the  little  children  were  revolving 
around  the  chalk  planetarium,  obedient  to  her  will. 
Noiselessly,  beautifully,  they  swam  around  in  her  waking 
dream,  to  the  rhythm  of  ideal  harmonies.  The  little 
comet  went  and  came,  and  went  and  came  again,  and 
still  her  ears  rang  with  the  applause  of  the  admiring  as 
sembly. 

She  lay  thus,  the  events  of  the  day  re-enacting  them 
selves  in  her  brain,  careless  of  sleep,  but  locked  in  a  de 
licious  and  half-delirious  repose.  In  retiring,  she  had 
neglected  to  extinguish  her  lamp,  and  was  glad  to  have 
it  burning.  At  not  infrequent  intervals  she  had  heard 
her  little  brother  moaning  and  muttering  in  his  sleep. 
At  last  the  clock  struck  twelve,  and  soon  afterwards 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  25 

she  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall — a  delicate, 
measured  tread,  light  as  the  step  of  a  fairy — jarring 
nothing,  awaking  no  resonance,  but  constant — now  ap 
proaching  her  door,  then  receding  and  fading  away  till 
its  velvet  fall  almost  escaped  her  strained  and  sharpened 
sense. 

Her  mother  !  What  wonder  that  the  words  her 
aunt  had  spoken  should  call  up  the  well-remembered 
form  ?  "What  wonder  that  her  quickened  imagination 
at  this  midnight  hour  should  conceive  the  presence  of 
the  loving  spirit  around  the  beds  which  her  feet,  while 
living,  had  visited  so  fondly  and  so  frequently  1 

Fanny  heard  the  little  parlor  clock  faintly  strike  the 
half-hour  before  she  thought  of  stirring.  She  was  not 
superstitious.  Her  father's  spirit  was  in  her,  and  when 
it  was  roused,  she  was  calm,  self-poised,  and  courageous. 
She  rose  from  her  bed,  determined  to  learn  the  cause  of 
the  footsteps  which  she  still  heard.  Taking  the  lamp  in 
her  hand,  she  opened  the  door  into  the  hall,  and  holding 
the  light  above  her  head,  peered  into  the  passage.  At 
its  farther  end  she  saw  a  small  white  object  approaching 
her  slowly,  and  knew  at  once  that  little  Fred  was  walk 
ing  in  his  sleep.  She  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  him,  for 
he  was  near  the  stairway.  As  he  came  nearer  to  her, 
she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  open,  in  an  unwinking,  som- 
nambulic  stare,  and  further,  that  he  was  still  enacting 
the  part  of  the  comet  in  his  dream.  He  came  up,  grad 
ually  increasing  his  speed,  then  suddenly  he  darted 
around  her,  and  started  on  another  circuit  out  into  the 
unknown  spaces.  Fanny  followed  him,  took  him  by  the 
hand,  and  quietly  led  him  to  his  bed,  and  lay  down  by 
his  side,  afraid  to  leave  him. 
2 


26  MISS  GILBERT'S  CABEEK  : 

Now  she  did  not  dare  to  fall  asleep.  She  could  not 
risk  her  little  brother  again  to  the  danger  of  walking  off 
the  stairs.  Now  she  must  think,  to  keep  herself  awake. 
The  most  exciting  thoughts  would  be  the  most  welcome. 

Of  all  the  words  spoken  to  her,  or  spoken  within  her 
hearing,  during  the  day,  there  was  one  which  had  left  the 
deepest  impression,  and  was  charged  with  the  most  grate 
ful  suggestions.  There  were  words  of  praise  that  had 
been  appropriated  for  immediate  consumption ;  this  was 
kept  sacredly  for  future  use,  as  a  precious  morsel  to  be 
devoured  in  secret.  There  were  words  which  had  set 
tled  like  a  flock  of  singing  birds  among  her  fresh  sensi 
bilities  ;  this  had  wheeled  and  hovered  alone  above  her, 
waiting  till  the  others  had  gone  before  it  would  come 
down  and  nestle  at  her  heart. 

A  career  !  Dr.  Bloomer  had  told  her,  with  abundant 
emphasis,  that  she  had  a  career  before  her.  Rev.  Jonas 
Sliter  had  yoked  her  name  with  a  woman  famous  in  his 
tory,  as  one  to  whom  a  great  career  was  possible — one, 
indeed,  who  had  already  commenced  a  career.  Even 
Rev.  J.  Desilver  Newman  had  been  compelled,  by  his 
sense  of  justice,  to  accord  to  her  the  power  of  achieving 
a  great  career.  She  had  cauglit  the  taste  of  public  ap 
plause,  and  it  was  sweet — sweeter  than  any  thing  she 
had  ever  known.  Her  inmost  soul  had  been  thrilled  by 
its  penetrating  flavor,  and  she  became  conscious  of  a  new 
hunger,  a  new  thirst,  a  new  longing.  A  new  motive  of 
life  was  born  within  her,  and  she  must  have  a  career 
that  she  might  win  more  praise,  and  drink  more  deeply 
at  the  fountain  which  the  day  and  its  events  had  opened 
to  her. 

Her  soul  was  on  fire  with  a  newly-kindled  ambition. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOET.  27 

Life  grew  golden  and  glorious  to  her.  Projects  of 
achievement  rose  like  fairy  palaces  in  her  imagination, 
and  ran  out  in  glittering  lines  to  its  farthest  verge.  She 
would  be  an  authoress.  She  would  write  books.  She 
would  reveal  her  life  in  poetry,  the  music  of  whose  num 
bers  should  charm  the  world,  and  compel  the  world  to 
give  her  homage.  She  would  hold  the  mirror  up  to  life 
hi  fiction,  and  win  the  plaudits  of  the  nations,  like  women 
of  whom  she  had  heard.  She  would  become  a  great 
painter.  She  would  cross  the  seas,  and  gather  from  the 
masters  their  secrets,  and  then  she  would  return  and 
glorify  her  name  and  her  nation  by  works  of  unequalled 
art.  She  would  become  a  visitor  of  prisons,  and  a  min 
ister  of  mercy  to  the  abodes  of  infamy  and  of  misery, 
and  win  immortality  for  a  life  devoted  to  works  of  char 
ity.  She  would  be  a  missionary,  and,  on  "  India's  burn 
ing  sands,"  plant  the  standard  of  the  Cross.  She  would 
stand  before  public  assemblies,  and  there  assert,  not  only 
her  own  womanhood,  but  the  rights  of  her  sex.  She 
would  have  a  career  of  some  kind. 

In  one  brief  hour  of  dreaming,  all  the  charm  of  do 
mestic  home-life  had  faded.  The  thought  of  marriage, 
its  quiet  duties,  and  its  subordination  of  her  life  and  will 
to  the  life  and  will  of  another,  became  repulsive  to  her. 
Even  Crampton  was  become  too  small  for  her,  and  the 
praise  of  the  humble  country  pastors  that  had  so  elated 
her,  grew  insignificant,  almost  contemptible.  One  thing 
was  certain — she  could  never  keep  an  infant  school  again. 

Gradually  the  period  of  wakefulness  passed  away. 
Little  Fred  became  more  cool  and  quiet,  and  slept 
sweetly.  Already  she  had  launched  out  into  the  sea  of 
sleep  on  a  vessel  under  full  sail,  and  was  waving  her 


28  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

handkerchief  to  the  crowd  of  friends  on  shore,  whom  she 
had  left  for  an  indefinite  term  of  years,  for  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  shrines  of  classic  art,  when  the  door-bell  was  rung 
violently,  and  she  was  startled  into  consciousness  again. 
She  heard  her  father's  prompt  step  in  the  hall,  and  then 
she  listened  for  the  errand  of  the  messenger.  The  voice 
was  that  of  a  boy,  evidently  very  much  out  of  breath 
with  running. 

"  Please,  Dr.  Gilbert,  come  down  to  our  house  just 
as  quick  as  you  can,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Whose  house  is  our  house  ?  "  inquired  the  doctor 
gruffly,  unable  to  make  out  the  boy  in  the  darkness. 

"  Why,  you've  been  there  forty  times.  You  know 
Mr.  Pelton's,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  who  is  sick  at  Mr.  Pelton's  ?  " 

"  Not  anybody  as  I  knows  of,"  said  the  boy,  taking 
a  long  breath.  "  It's  the  next  house — Mr.  Tinker's." 

"  Well,  who  is  sick  at  Mr.  Tinker's  "?  "  inquired  the 
doctor  impatiently. 

"  You  know  Ducky,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Ducky  who  ?     Ducky  what  ?  " 

"Why,  don't  you  know  little  Ducky  Tinker? 
You've  seen  her  forty  times,"  exclaimed  the  boy  in  a 
tone  of  indignant  astonishment. 

"  Look  here,  boy,"  said  Dr.  Gilbert,  "  if  you  know 
who  is  sick,  tell  me." 

"  Well,  you  know  little  Venus,  don't  you  ?  "  ex 
claimed  the  boy,  in  a  tone  that  said,  "  If  you  don't  know 
her,  it  is  beyond  my  power  to  go  further." 

"  Little  Venus  1 " 

"  Yes,  little  Venus.  Of  course  you  know  her.  You 
saw  her  in  church  forty  times  to-day." 


AN    AMERICAN    STORY.  2y 

"  Oh !  yes ;  I  understand.  I'll  be  down  there  di 
rectly,"  said  the  doctor,  and  slammed  the  door  in  the 
boy's  face. 

Fanny,  amused  with  the  lad's  cool  oddity,  and  pained 
to  hear  of  the  sickness  of  one  of  her  little  pets,  rose  and 
went  to  the  window  to  make  further  inquiries.  Putting 
out  her  head,  she  saw  him  sitting  on  the  door-step,  and 
overheard  him  talking  to  himself. 

"  Spiteful  old  customer,  any  way.  Wonder  if  he 
thinks  I'm  going  home  alone.  No,  sir — you  don't  catch 
me.  I'll  sit  here  and  blow  till  he  comes  round  with  his 
old  go-cart,  and  then  I'll  hang  on  to  the  tail  of  it,  and 
try  legs  with  that  little  Kanuck  of  his.  Hullo  !  Who's 
there  ?  Tell  me  before  I  count  three,  or  I'll  fire.  One — 
two— " 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  a  dark  figure 
that  appeared  at  the  gate  to  interrupt  the  boy's  solilo 
quy.  "  I  want  the  doctor,"  said  the  figure,  just  in  time 
to  save  himself  from  the  boy's  fatal  "  three." 

"  You  can't  have  him,"  said  the  boy  promptly. 

"  Can't  have  him  ?     Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  me  1  You've  seen  me  forty 
times.  I  know  you  like  a  book." 

"  Well,  why  can't  I  have  the  doctor  *?  Isn't  he  at 
home?" 

"  Yes,  he's  at  home,  but  he's  spoke  for." 

"  But  I  must  have  him,"  said  the  man  decidedly. 

"  Why,  what's  the  row  down  to  your  house  ?  Mars 
sick  1 " 

"  Mars  sick «?     Who's  Mars  ?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  Mars  1  Well,  that  is  funny. 
Didn't  go  to  the  exhibition,  did  you  ?  " 


30 

"  Oh  !  yes.  It  is  Mars.  He  is  very  bad,  and  the 
doctor  must  see  him  now.  Where  is  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  think  Mars  is  very  bad,  I  wonder 
what  you  would  think  of  Venus,"  said  the  boy,  intent 
on  diverting  the  man's  attention  from  the  doctor. 
"  Screaming  all  night,  folks  all  up,  poultices  all  over 
her,  paregoric  no  use.  Don't  know  a  thing." 

At  this  moment  the  doctor  drove  round,  having 
harnessed  his  own  horse,  and  was  hailed  by  both  mes 
sengers  at  the  gate.  The  messenger  of  Mars  made 
known  his  errand,  and  the  doctor  promised  to  visit  that 
planet  immediately  after  his  return  from  Mr.  Tinker's. 
In  the  meantime,  the  messenger  of  Venus  had  secured 
his  hold  of  the  tail  of  Dr.  Gilbert's  gig,  and  was  soon 
on  his  way,  half  running,  half  riding,  and  trying  his  legs 
very  successfully  with  the  little  black  pony. 

Fanny  went  back  to  her  bed,  fearful  and  distressed, 
wondering  if  all  her  little  planets  were  going  to  fall. 
Examining  little  Fred  once  more,  and  finding  him  still 
composed,  she  surrendered  herself  to  her  pillow,  and 
when  she  awoke  again,  it  was  not  only  daylight,  but  the 
sun  was  shining  brightly  in  at  her  window. 
»  She  rose,  and  dressed  little  Fred  and  herself,  and  de 
scended  to  the  breakfast-room.  The  boy  had  little  of 
the  elasticity  of  his  years,  and  she  felt  languid  and  mis 
erable.  Aunt  Catharine  received  them  with  anxious 
eyes,  and  was  evidently  relieved  to  find  them  both  able 
to  be  upon  their  feet. 

"  Where  is  father  ?  "  inquired  Fanny. 
"  Out,  looking  after  his  men  in  the  field,  as  usual," 
replied  Aunt   Catharine.      "I  don't  believe  that  man 


AN   AMEEICAN    STOKY.  31 

slept  two  hours  last  night,  and  he  was  up  all  the  night 
before.  I  wonder  he  lives." 

It  was  the  breakfast  hour,  and  promptly  on  the 
stroke  of  the  clock  he  entered  the  room.  He  looked  at 
little  Fred  anxiously,  but  he  did  not  speak  to  him. 
There  was  a  cloud  upon  his  face  which  Fanny  under 
stood,  but  which  Aunt  Catharine  could  not  interpret. 

"  Who  called  you  up  last  night  1 "  inquired  Aunt 
Catharine. 

"  That's  more  than  I  know,"  replied  the  doctor 
evasively,  while  an  expression  of  hard  pain  passed  over 
his  face. 

Fanny  regarded  him  with  marked  apprehension,  and 
on  the  impulse  inquired,  "  Are  they  very  sick,  father  1 " 

Dr.  Gilbert  looked  in  her  face,  and  saw  that  she 
knew  what  Aunt  Catharine  did  not. 

"  Both  have  been  very  sick,  but  both  are  relieved. 
Your  little  Mars  is  much  better.  Your  little  Venus, 
Fanny—" 

Dr.  Gilbert  paused.  His  daughter  noticed  his  hesi 
tation,  turned  pale,  and  dropped  her  knife  and  fork. 
He  could  not  bear  to  speak  the  word  in  presence  of  lit 
tle  Fred. 

"  Little  Venus — "  suggested  Fanny,  repeating  the 
commencement  of  his  broken  sentence. 

"  Little  Venus,"  pursued  the  doctor,  "  has  taken  her 
place  in  the  sky." 

Little  Fred  looked  up,  with  his  eyes  full  of  wonder, 
and  said,  "  Has  she  really,  and  truly,  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  really  and  truly,  my  boy." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  take  my  place  in  the  sky,  too. 
Can't  I  take  my  place  in  the  sky  with  Venus  1  I  won't 


32  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

run  against  her,"  said  the  boy  with  eager  enthu 
siasm. 

"  Little  Venus  is  dead,  my  boy,"  said  the  doctor, 
his  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  Dead  ?  dead  ?  "  inquired  the  little  fellow,  his  eyes 
wide  with  solemn  wonder.  "  Who  killed  her  ?  What 
made  her  die  ?  I  don't  believe  it  was  right  that  little 
Venus  should  die ;  was  it,  papa  1 ' 

"  Yes,  it  was  right,  my  child,  for  God  took  her 
away." 

Aunt  Catharine  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair.  It 
was  all  she  could  do  to  maintain  silence.  It  seemed  to 
her  straightforward,  honest  mind,  almost  blasphemy  to 
attribute  to  God  an  event  occasioned  by  the  excitements 
and  exposures  to  which  the  delicate  childhood  of  little 
Venus  had  been  subjected. 

Fred's  brain  was  sorely  puzzled,  and  as  his  young 
reason  found  no  way  to  grasp  and  adjust  the  event,  he 
burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  weeping.  The  doc 
tor  could  not  withstand  this,  and  starting  as  if  he  had 
been  smitten  in  the  face,  he  rose  and  left  the  room. 


AN    AMKBICAN    STOBY.  33 


CHAPTER    III. 

HUCKLEBTJEY  ETTN   AND  ITS  ENTEBPEISING  PEOPEIETOE. 

NEW  and  important  characters  wait  impatiently  for 
an  introduction  to  the  reader,  and  why  pause  to  relate 
events  that  occurred  as  a  matter  of  course,  after  the 
death  of  little  Venus?  Why  pause  to  tell  of  Aunt 
Catharine's  further  exposition  of  "  her  mind ;  "  of  the 
touching  funeral  of  the  little  girl,  attended  to  her  grave 
by  the  entire  corps  of  the  "  Crampton  Light  Infantry," 
in  procession  ;  of  each  little  member  going  up  and  toss 
ing  flowers  into  her  grave  ;  of  the  prayers  and  preachings 
of  the  good  pastor  over  the  "  mysterious  providence  ;  " 
of  the  reaction  against  infant  schools  among  the  people 
of  Crampton ;  of  the  disgust  of  Dr.  Gilbert  with  the  ig 
norance  and  superstition  of  those  whom  he  had  striven 
to  benefit ;  and  of  the  freedom  in  which  Miss  Fanny 
Gilbert  was  left  to  dream  of  a  career  ? 

A  few  weeks  after  the  events  which  have  been  nar 
rated,  Dr.  Gilbert  had  a  long  interview  with  Mrs. 
Blague,  in  her  snug  back  parlor.  That  little  lady,  pale 
with  her  recent  sickness,  and  dropping  tears  freely  un- 


34:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

der  the  stress  of  present  gloomy  reflections,  sat  rocking 
the  cradle  of  her  little  boy,  and  rocking  herself  at  the 
same  time. 

"  You  must  cheer  up,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  voice 
so  sonorous  that  it  seemed  to  jar  the  floor. 

"  Ah  !  doctor,  you  say  it  very  easily  ;  I  find  it  very 
hard." 

"  Well,  you  must  stir  about,  you  must  get  out  doors 
and  see  people,  and — and — get  strength.  That  was  al 
ways  Mrs.  Gilbert's  way." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Gilbert !  "  responded  Mrs.  Blague,  with 
an  involuntary  sigh.  "  How  much  comfort  she  would 
be  to  me,  if  she  were  living  !  " 

Aunt  Catharine's  recent  remarks  upon  Mrs.  Gilbert 
had  made  the  doctor  sensitive,  and  he  changed  the  direc 
tion  of  the  conversation. 

"  Well,  to  come  back  to  business.  We  may  as  well 
look  all  our  troubles  in  the  face.  I  find,  on  examining 
your  husband's  accounts,  that,  after  paying  all  the  debts, 
you  will  only  have  this  house  left.  Now  the  practical 
question  is,  how  you  are  going  to  live.  You  are  not  able 
to  earn  any  thing,  and  you  will  not  be,  while  this  child 
is  young.  You  have  but  one  resort,  and  that  is  Arthur. 
He  is  eighteen  years  old — smart  and  strong — able  to 
earn  his  own  living  and  yours  too ;  and  if  he  is  a  boy 
of  the  spirit  I  take  him  to  be,  he  will  devote  himself  to 
you  gladly." 

"  But  it  will  be  such  a  disappointment  to  him  to  be 
obliged  to  relinquish  study  ;  and  I  had  set  my  heart  on 
his  going  through  college.  It  was  the  strongest  wish  of 
his  father  that  he  should  be  an  educated  man,  and  have 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  35 

a  chance  to  rise  in  the  world.     I  would  willingly  give 
up  the  house —  " 

"  It  cannot  be  done,  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  in 
terrupting  her.  "  You've  got  a  house — keep  it  over 
your  head.  You've  got  a  son  able  to  earn  money 
enough  to  support  you  in  it.  Let  him  do  it.  It  is  as 
plainly  God's  providence  for  you,"  said  the  doctor, 
rising,  and  walking  back  and  forth  across  the  room,  "  as 
if  he  had  told  you  so  in  so  many  words.  Let  Arthur 
be  called,  and  let  us  find  out  what  he  thinks  about 
it." 

Arthur  is  in  his  chamber  writing  up  accounts ;  and 
while  Mrs.  Blague  goes  to  call  him,  let  us  engage  our 
selves  with  a  bit  of  history  which  is  passing  through  the 
busy  mind  of  Dr.  Gilbert.  Mr.  Blague  had  been  a 
humble  country  tradesman,  industrious  and  frugal,  but 
not  prosperous.  He  had  lived  comfortably  and  rep 
utably,  but  he  had  lived  a  life  of  sorrow.  His  first 
child,  Arthur,  had  thriven,  but  he  had  had  many  children, 
all  of  whom  he  had  lost.  Some  taint  of  constitution 
had  attached  to  all  in  turn,  and  just  as  they  were  blossom 
ing  into  childhood,  one  after  another  had  sickened  and 
died.  These  repeated  blows  had  so  stricken  the  feeble 
mother  that  she  had  become  what  strong  people  call  "  a 
broken-down  woman."  For  her,  there  were  no  bright 
skies,  no  green  fields,  no  pleasant  melody  of  birds,  no 
beautiful  flowers,  no  life-inspiring  breezes  ;  and  when 
the  last  blow  came,  and  he  who  had  been  her  constant 
friend,  and  her  one  stay  and  support,  was  taken  from  her, 
her  spirit  was  crushed  into  a  helpless  grief  from  which 
she  did  not  even  care  to  rise.  The  birth  of  another  boy, 
after  the  death  of  her  husband,  was  but  an  added  grief, 


36 

for  she  had  lost  all  hope  now,  that  any  child  of  hers 
might  live. 

So,  when  Dr.  Gilbert  told  her  to  "  cheer  up,"  it 
only  made  her  the  more  sensible  that  she  was  beyond 
the  ability  of  cheerfulness.  When  he  bade  her  "  stir 
about,"  she  comprehended  no  motive  for  the  effort.  She 
could  cheer  no  one ;  she  could  be  cheered  by  no  one. 
Vital  elasticity  there  was  none  within  her.  Her  life 
had  become  a  passive,  grieving,  plaining  thing. 

There  is  a  sound  upon  the  stairs,  and  Dr.  Gilbert, 
growing  impatient  with  a  few  minutes'  delay,  looks  at 
his  watch.  Arthur  Blague  opens  the  door,  and  respect 
fully  steps  aside  for  his  mother  to  enter.  He  is  tall 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  lift  her  in  his  arms  like  a 
child.  His  hair  is  black,  his  eye  is  dark — there  is  some 
thing  manly  beyond  his  years  in  his  bearing — yet  the 
down  of  manhood  hardly  darkens  his  lip.  Shaking  Dr. 
Gilbert's  hand,  he  advances  to  the  cradle,  and  taking  it 
up,  he  removes  it  to  another  room.  The  mother  follows 
passively,  and  he  shuts  the  door  after  her.  Dr.  Gilbert 
clears  his  throat,  and  forgets  what,  in  his  hasty  prompt 
ness,  he  was  going  to  say.  Arthur  is  not  a  boy  any 
longer,  and  there  is  something  in  his  presence — felt  but 
undefinable — that  gives  Dr.  Gilbert  the  consciousness 
that  he  has  will  and  character  to  deal  with. 

Can  streams  rise  higher  than  their  fountains  ?  They 
can,  and  they  do.  There  was  more  power,  more  char 
acter,  more  life,  in  this  boy,  than  either  his  father  or  his 
mother  possessed — nay,  more  than  both  together  pos 
sessed.  He  was  of  a  more  generous  pattern,  physically 
and  mentally,  than  either.  Where  did  he  come  from  ? 
What  germ  of  a  feeble  life  enclosed  the  germ  of  this 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  37 

large  life  ?  Philosophy  tells  of  great  hereditary  quali 
ties  stepping  proudly  over  the  heads  of  many  genera 
tions,  and  entering  into  life  again.  Philosophy  tells  us 
that  family  life  is  like  a  garden  vine,  that  repeats  the 
parent  root  at  long  intervals,  and  pushes  on  with  new 
vitality.  Philosophy  is  a  cheat.  God  makes  new 
Adams  every  day. 

Arthur  Blague  took  a  chair  in  front  of  Dr  Gilbert, 
and  calmly  looked  him  in  the  face.  The  doctor  cleared 
his  throat,  and  began :  "  As  the  administrator  of  your 
father's  estate,  and  as  his  old  friend,  I  am,  of  course, 
much  interested  in  the  future  comfort  and  welfare  of 
his  family." 

Dr.  Gilbert  paused,  uncertain  how  to  proceed,  and 
drummed  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his  finger-nails. 
Arthur  still  looked  in  his  face,  and  simply  responded 
«  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,"  pursued  the  doctor,  entirely  breaking 
down  on  his  preamble,  "  to  make  a  long  story  short, 
we  can  only  save  this  house  from  the  estate;  and  some 
means  are  to  be  devised  for  supporting  your  mother, 
her  little  one,  and  yourself." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  responded  Arthur  again. 

"  I  am  aware,"  continued  Dr.  Gilbert,  getting  easier, 
"  that  you  have  entertained  high  aims  in  life,  and  you 
know,  Arthur,  that  I  sympathize  with  you  in  them.  It 
will  be  very  hard  for  you  to  relinquish  them,  I  know  ; 
but  you  see  how  it  is,  and  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be 
ready  to  make  the  sacrifice." 

"  I  suppose,"  replied  Arthur,  "  that  I  can  change 
my  plans,  without  changing  my  aims." 

Light  dawned  on  the  doctor.     He  would  encourage 


38  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

the  boy  to  entertain  a  pleasant  delusion,  though  he  was 
entirely  at  a  loss  to  imagine  how  a  man  could  become 
eminent  without  first  attaining,  in  the  regular  way,  what 
people  are  accustomed  to  call  "  an  education." 

"  A  very  proper  distinction,"  said  the  doctor,  rub 
bing  his  hands.  "  Keep  your  aims  and  change  your 
means.  Keep  your  eye  on  the  goal,  and,  if  circum 
stances  make  it  necessary  to  change  the  path  by  which 
you  have  chosen  to  reach  it,  then  adopt  a  new  path.  A 
good  distinction — very  good.  I'm  glad  you  thought  of 
it,  because  it  will  help  you,  and  make  a  change  in  your 
plans  comparatively  easy." 

"  Easy  !  "  exclaimed  Arthur,  a  half-contemptuous 
twinge  in  his  lip,  and  added  :  "  I  take  it  that  the  simple 
question  with  me  is,  what  is  right,  and  what  is  best." 

"  Very  well,  how  do  you  decide  that  question  ?  " 

"  I  decided,  before  my  father  was  laid  in  the  grave, 
that  it  was  right  and  best  for  me  to  support  my  mother 
and  myself,  and  that  it  would  be  a  shame  and  a  curse 
to  me  to  relinquish  her,  or  submit  myself  to  the  charity 
of  friends,  in  order  to  attain  my  own  selfish  ends." 

"  A  brave  decision,  Arthur  Blague  ! "  exclaimed  the 
doctor  with  a  hearty  smile.  "  Now  what  do  you  pro 
pose  to  do  1  Will  you  teach  a  school  this  winter  ?  " 

"I  think  not." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wish  to  undertake  some  employment 
which  I  can  follow  constantly,  and  which  will  give  me 
a  regular  income  throughout  the  year.  It  must  be  near 
my  home,  for  my  mother  cannot  be  left  alone.  It  must 
be  an  employment  of  promise,  in  which  I  can  feel  that  I 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  39 

am  learning  that  which  will  be  of  more  value  to  me  than 
my  wages." 

"  1  don't  know  where  you'll  find  it,"  said  the  doctor, 
shaking  his  head  dubiously.  "  There  isn't  much  going 
on  in  Crampton.  Wagon-making  is  down.  I  had  to 
take  one  for  a  debt  last  week,  and  sacrifice  on  it. 
Brooms  are  very  uncertain.  Brush  is  high  now,  and 
nobody  makes  any  thing.  Ketchum  &  Fleesum  are 
doing  a  good  deal  with  palm-leaf  hats,  I  suppose.  They 
make  considerable  noise  about  it,  at  least.  What  do 
you  say  to  going  into  their  store  ?  " 

"  I've  had  enough  of  stores,"  replied  Arthur  de 
cidedly. 

"  Well,  there's  old  Ruggles,  down  at  Hucklebury 
Run.  He  is  about  the  only  man  in  Crampton  who  is  mak 
ing  any  thing.  Cotton  and  sugar  are  high  now,  and  the 
market  for  linsey-woolsey  was  never  better  at  the  South. 
He  employs  a  great  many  hands,  and  pays  good  wages." 

Arthur  cast  his  eyes,  which  he  had  held  steadily  on 
the  doctor's  face  till  this  moment,  upon  the  floor.  His 
face  grew  red,  and  a  mingled  expression  of  pain  and  dis 
gust  passed  over  it. 

The  doctor  noticed  the  change,  and  added :  "  I  know 
that  they  tell  hard  stories  about  matters  down  at  the 
Run.  Old  Ruggles,  as  we  call  him,  isn't  exactly  a  pop 
ular  man.  I  suppose  he  does  the  best  he  can  for  himself, 
like  the  rest  of  us,  but  he's  a  driving  fellow,  and  brings  a 
great  deal  of  money  into  the  place.  He's  a  member  of 
our  parish,  you  know,  and  pays  something  for  the  sup 
port  of  the  Gospel." 

"  And  starves  what  he  pays  out  of  his  operatives, 
unless  they  lie,"  replied  Arthur. 


40  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEKB: 

"  Well,  well,  we  can't  always  tell  about  these 
things.  Men  who  have  so  many  people  to  manage  have 
a  great  many  trials  we  know  nothing  about.  I'm  in 
clined  to  think  he  is  a  little  hard,  but  he  will  do  as  he 
agrees  to  do ;  and  the  question  which  you  have  to  set 
tle  is,  whether  you  can  earn  enough  in  his  employ  to 
support  the  family,  and  still  be  learning  something  that 
will  enable  you  to  get  up  in  life." 

"  Dr.  Gilbert,"  said  Arthur  warmly, "  you  know  that 
old  Ruggles  did  my  father  more  injury  than  any  other 
man  he  ever  'dealt  with.  He  always  over-reached  him, 
and  always  abused  his  confidence.  I  have  quarrelled 
with  him  myself,  and  he  hates  me.  I  have  no  respect 
for  him,  and  can  have  none." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  can  do  better,  I  have  nothing  to 
say ;  but  you  see  how  it  is.  I  confess  that  I  see  nothing 
for  you  to  do,  unless  you  can  find  it  in  his  establish 
ment." 

Arthur  rose,  and  walked  the  room  in  undisguised 
distress.  It  was  torture  to  think  of  being  under  the 
control  of  one  whom  he  knew  to  be  mean-spirited  and 
tyrannical.  Then  the  humiliation  of  coming  upon  a 
level  with  those  who  had  been  the  slaves  of  their  em 
ployer  for  years,  and  who,  for  bread,  had  forfeited  their 
manhood  in  a  craven  sycophancy,  chafed  his  pride  al 
most  beyond  endurance.  The  loss  of  caste  with  his  as 
sociates  in  the  village — young  men  with  whom  he  had 
hoped  to  dispute  the  honors  of  a  higher  grade  of  life — 
he  could  bear  better  than  this,  but  it  helped  to  make 
his  cup  more  bitter. 

"  You  see,"  suggested  the  doctor,  watching  him 
closely,  "  that  you  will  not  be  obliged  to  stay  at  the 


AN   AMERICAN    STOEY.  41 

Bun  at  night.  You  can  breakfast  here,  take  your 
dinner  along  with  you,  and  come  home  to  sup  and 
sleep." 

Arthur  did  not  need  the  suggestion.  He  had  strug 
gled  with  himself,  and  he  had  conquered.  Brushing 
tears  from  his  eyes  that  the  conflict  had  cost  him,  he 
calmly  seated  himself  again,  and  said :  "  The  matter  is 
settled.  I  shall  go  to  the  Run,  if  I  can  get  employ 
ment  there." 

He  had  hardly  finished  his  sentence  when  the  doc 
tor  rose  from  his  seat,  hurried  to  the  window,  raised  it, 
and  shouted  to  a  man  passing  along  the  street  in  a 
wagon,  behind  a  half-fed  horse.  Having  just  then  re 
ceived  a  swinging  cut  with  the  whip,  the  animal  was 
not  readily  checked.  So  the  driver  gave  him  another 
cut  to  make  him  stop,  and  as  the  horse  did  not  under 
stand  that  way  of  doing  business,  he  gave  him  another 
cut  to  make  him  understand  it,  shouting  "  Whoa  then ! " 
so  savagely  that  he  could  be  heard  from  one  end  of 
Crampton  common  to  the  other. 

The  doctor  beckoned  him  to  return.  Arthur  trem 
bled  from  head  to  foot,  not  with  apprehension  but 
with  indignation.  It  was  old  Ruggles  himself,  on  his 
regular  morning  visit  to  the  post-office.  As  he  came 
back  to  the  window,  his  horse,  half-crazed  with  pain  and 
fear,  was  not  readily  pulled  up,  and  he  was  whipped 
again,  and  then  he  was  driven  round  and  round  a  circle 
in  front  of  the  house,  and  whipped  all  the  way.  At 
length  the  poor  brute  stood  still. 

"I'll  teach  you,"  said  old  Ruggles,  spitefully,  and 
then  seeing  for  the  first  time  who  had  called  him,  whined 
out  by  way  of  apology,  "  The  fact  is,  doctor,  the  women 


42 

drive  this  horse  so  much  that  he  isn't  good  for  any 
thing.  I  hate  to  whip  a  horse." 

"  I  never  whip  a  horse,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  you  can't  always  get  along  without  it. 
Horses  are  like  folks.  You  have  to  straighten  them 
out  once  in  a  while.  He  !  he  !  he  !  "  and  the  proprietor 
of  Hucklebury  Run  tried  to  smile  amiably. 

"  Have  you  a  few  minutes  to  spare  now  ?  "  inquired 
Dr.  Gilbert. 

"  Well !  yes — always  enough  to  do,  you  know.  We 
are  working  folks  down  to  the  Run.  Can't  stop  long. 
Whatis't?" 

"  A  little  matter  of  business.  Suppose  you  tie  your 
horse,  and  come  in." 

Old  Ruggles  looked  down  upon  his  rusty  satinet 
suit,  perfectly  conscious  that  he  was  out  of  place  in  a  de 
cent  house  and  good  company. 

"  I  ain't  fixed  up  any,  you  see,"  said  he,  "  but  hand 
some  is  that  handsome  does,  as  they  say.  He !  he ! 
he ! "  and  he  tried  to  smile  again.  Arthur  was  burning 
with  disgust.  His  sensitive  nature  revolted  from  con 
tact  with  the  man,  but  he  stepped  to  the  door  and  ad 
mitted  him.  He  took  Arthur's  unresisting  hand,  and 
remembering  that  he  was  in  a  house  which  death  had 
recently  visited,  he  drew  on  a  very  long  and  a  very 
sympathetic  face,  and  told  Arthur  he  was  glad  to  see 
him  looking  well,  and  inquired  how  his  mother  "  stood 
up  under  it."  Then  he  blew  his  nose,  a  tough  organ, 
accustomed  by  long  usage  to  that  process,  and  on  the 
present  occasion  blown  as  an  expression  of  sympathy 
for  the  bereaved  family,  and  as  a  signal  for  the  com 
mencement  of  business. 


AN   AMEKICAN    STORY.  43 

"  We  were  talking  of  you  the  moment  you  drove 
past  the  window,"  said  the  doctor  preliminarily. 

"  Saying  nothing  bad,  I  hope,"  replied  Ruggles,  look 
ing  from  the  doctor  to  Arthur,  and  from  Arthur  to  the 
doctor  again;  with  his  small,  shrewd,  gray  eyes. 

Arthur  blushed,  but  the  doctor,  intent  on  business, 
paid  no  attention  to  the  remark,  and  proceeded. 

"  Perhaps  you  know,  Mr.  Ruggles,  that  Mr.  Blague's 
affairs  do  not  turn  out  so  well  as  we  had  hoped,  for  the 
sake  of  his  family,  they  might." 

Ruggles  nodded  his  head,  and  said  that  he  had  heard 
something  to  that  effect. 

"  Which,"  continued  the  doctor,  "  will  make  it 
necessary  for  our  young  friend  Arthur  to  relinquish 
some  of  his  plans,  and  to  devote  himself  to  obtaining  a 
support  for  himself  and  the  family." 

Ruggles  nodded  his  head  again,  evidently  puzzled  to 
know  why^all  this  should  be  said  to  him. 

Dr.  Gilbert  proceeded :  "  Arthur  and  I  have  been 
considering  the  matter,  and  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  a  situation  in  your  establishment  would  perhaps 
give  him  the  best  opportunity  he  could  have  for  earning 
reasonable  wages,  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  acquiring 
knowledge  of  a  business  that  would  enable  him  at  some 
future  day  to  realize  a  competence." 

Arthur's  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  face  of  his 
future  employer.  The  gray  eyes  twinkled  with  a  new 
light,  the  thin,  long  lips  twitched  with  unwonted  ex 
citement,  and  the  hard,  wrinkled  cheeks,  black  as  ink 
with  a  three-days  beard,  seemed  to  hug  more  tightly 
the  bones  beneath  them.  The  thought  that  the  son  of 
the  old  tradesman — that  Arthur  Blague,  who  had  defied 


44  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

him,  and  who  had  proudly  expressed  his  contempt  of 
him  to  his  face,  should  become  his  dependent,  was  one 
which  gratified  every  thing  that  was  malignant  in  his 
nature.  Arthur,  with  his  keen  instincts,  read  the  hard 
face  as  if  it  were  the  page  of  an  open  book. 

Old  Ruggles  looked  about  the  room,  wrinkled  his 
forehead  as  if  in  a  brown  study,  and  whistled  to  him 
self.  He  was  at  home  now.  He  forgot  his  rusty  suit 
of  satinet.  He  forgot  the  dissonance  of  his  breeding 
with  that  of  the  quiet  house  in  which  he  sat.  He  wras 
the  lord  of  a  favor  and  a  destiny,  and,  as  a  fitting  ex 
pression  of  his  new  dignity,  he  put  his  dusty  feet  in  a 
chair,  and  whistled  again. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  hardly  what  to  say  about  it. 
I've  got  all  the  help  I  care  about,  and  I'm  afraid  that 
Arthur  ain't  quite  used  enough  to  work  to  be  contented 
with  us.  We  are  working  folks  down  to  the  Run,  you 
know ; "  having  said  which,  old  Ruggles  subsided  into 
another  whistle. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  work,  sir,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  it.  Pluck  is  every 
thing,  but  I — I — don't  exactly  like  to  have  you  do  it. 
It's  a  kind  of— sort  of— coming  down,  ain't  it  ?  "  The 
proprietor  of  Hucklebury  Run  grinned  maliciously,  and 
thought  he  was  looking  amiable  and  sympathetic. 

"  If  you  are  particular  about  knowing  my  opinion  on 
that  point,"  replied  Arthur  sharply,  "  I  think  it  is." 

"  Now  that's  jest  the  trouble  I  expected.  You  see 
we  are  all  alike  down  to  the  Run.  I  work  jest  as  hard 
as  any  of  my  hands,  and  we  can't  have  anybody  round 
that  feels  above  his  business.  You  can't  learn  my  busi 
ness,  and  learn  it  so  that  it  will  be  of  any  use  to  you, 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  4:5 

unless  you  begin  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and  work  up. 
I  began  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and  I  make  'em  all 
begin  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  Hucklebury  Run  is  the 
last  place  to  have  high  notions  in." 

"I  suppose  a  man  may  have  such  notions  as  he 
chooses,  provided  he  does  his  work  well,"  said  Arthur, 
and  added,  "  but  if  you  don't  want  me,  there  is  an  end 
of  it.  I  shall  try  somewhere  else." 

"  I  s'pose  I  can  make  a  place  for  you,  but  I  couldn't 
give  you  much  the  first  year." 

"How  much?" 

"  Let's  see  !  "  and  the  manufacturer  ciphered  it  out 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling.  "  Ten  times  twelve  is  a 
hunderd  and  twente-e-e — ten  times  twelve  is  a  hunderd 
and  twente-e-e — fifty-two  dollars — fifty-two  quarters — 
fifty-two  quarters — sixty-five — wages  and  board.  Well, 
a  hunderd  and  eighty-five  dollars  for  the  first  year. 
That's — ah — ten  dollars  a  month  for  twelve  months,  and 
a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  week  for  board." 

"  Is  that  all  you  can  give  ?  "  inquired  Dr.  Gilbert, 
very  much  disappointed. 

"  It's  all  that  it's  safe  to  offer,  I  assure  you,  doctor. 
The  fact  is,  he  may  not  like,  and  I  may  not  like.  If  he 
should  earn  more,  why,  of  course,  I  would  increase  his 
wages." 

"  But  the  board,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  is  very  low. 
A  young  man  of  Arthur's  age  cannot  live  on  it." 

"  A  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  week  is  all  I  ever  pay  at 
the  boarding-house,  and  my  hands  live  just  as  well  as  I 
do.  We  are  all  alike  down  to  the  Run.  We  work 
hard,  and  live  economically." 

Old  Ruggles  comprehended  his  advantage  perfectly. 


46 

He  knew  there  was  no  other  steady  employment  in 
Crampton  procurable,  that  would  pay  Arthur  as  good 
wages  as  he  had  offered  him.  So  he  blew  his  nasal 
horn,  as  a  hint  that  he  was  in  a  hurry. 

"  We  will  let  you  know,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  will 
not  detain  you  longer  this  morning." 

The  manufacturer  rose  to  his  feet,  so  intent  on  new 
and  pleasant  thoughts  that  he  forgot  to  bid  his  friends 
good-morning.  His  horse  shrank  from  him  as  he  ap 
proached,  and  was  sharply  jerked  in  the  mouth  as  a 
punishment  for  his  apprehensions.  As  the  jerk  brought 
the  raw-mouthed  creature  back  almost  upon  his  haunches, 
he  kicked  him  in  his  side  to  bring  him  up  again. 

"  I'll  teach  you,"  spitefully  exclaimed  the  lord  of 
Hucklebury  Run  again,  as  if  he  were  addressing  an 
equal,  or  one  of  his  operatives.  Then  he  added,  as  a 
piece  of  information  that  it  would  be  well  for  the  horse 
to  know,  that  he  "  hadn't  got  a  woman  hold  of  him 
now."  The  animal  understood  the  information,  and 
went  off  down  the  street  at  a  rattling  pace. 

Arthur  said  not  a  word,  but  stood  exploring  vacancy 
through  one  of  the  parlor  windows.  Dr.  Gilbert  said  not 
a  word,  and  drummed  with  his  fingers  upon  the  other. 

"  Well,  Arthur,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  inquired  the 
doctor,  breaking  the  silence  at  last. 

"  I  shall  go,  I  suppose,"  he  replied  with  a  sigh  that 
was  almost  a  groan. 

"  I  think  I  would  try  it." 

"  If  I  try  it,  I  shall  go  through  it,"  said  Arthur.  "  I 
know  what  I  shall  have  to  encounter.  I  know  the  man  ; 
I  know  his  men,  and  I  know  his  place.  I  am  to  be  in 
sulted,  humiliated,  and  overworked." 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  47 

"  Oh  !  you  exaggerate.  You  must  not  be  too  sensi 
tive.  The  world  is  all  rougher  than  you  have  supposed 
it  to  be,  Arthur ;  and  Mr.  Ruggles  is  not  so  much 
worse  than  everybody  else  as  you  imagine.  Do  your 
work  well,  be  quiet,  learn  all  you  can,  improve  all  your 
spare  time,  and  keep  up  your  high  aims,  and  all  will 
come  out  right  in  the  end." 

Having  said  this,  in  his  most  encouraging  tone,  Dr. 
Gilbert  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said  he  must  go.  The 
moment  he  crossed  the  threshold,  and  closed  the  garden 
gate  behind  him,  the  subject  was  dismissed  from  his 
mind  for  the  time,  and  he  plunged  into  the  business  of 
the  day  as  if  a  young  and  unperverted  nature,  strug 
gling  with  destiny,  were  a  matter  of  the  smallest  con 
sequence.  Arthur's  life  was  only  one  of  the  things  that 
engaged  his  attention,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  disposed  of, 
other  things  came  in  turn.  Mrs.  Blague's  house  was  to 
be  saved,  and  the  family  was  to  be  supported,  more  or 
less  ably  and  respectably,  by  Arthur.  On  the  estab 
lishment  of  his  plans  with  relation  to  these  affairs,  he 
left  Arthur  to  himself. 

Dr.  Gilbert  had  not  been  aware,  during  his  inter 
view  with  Arthur,  of  the  struggle  for  self-control  that 
the  young  man  had  been  carrying  on  all  the  time.  The 
moment  Arthur  was  left  alone,  the  reaction  came.  He 
thought  of  the  sneers  of  his  old  companions,  the  mean 
satisfaction  of  those  whose  position  had  made  them 
jealous  of  him,  the  society  into  which  he  should  be  cast 
at  the  Bun,  the  humiliations  which  his  employer 
would  be  sure  to  visit  upon  him,  and  then  he  gave  him 
self  up  to  a  nervous  frenzy.  He  walked  the  room,  he 
swung  his  arms  with  uncontrollable  excitement,  and  ex- 


48 

claimed  in  a  hoarse  whisper  which  he  meant  should 
escape  the  ear  of  his  mother,  "  Oh !  I  cannot  do  it !  I 
cannot  do  it !  I  cannot  do  it !  " 

Then  there  arose  a  little  wail  in  the  next  room,  and 
the  clenched  hands,  wildly  swinging,  fell  at  his  side ; 
the  rapid  feet,  pacing  up  and  down  the  parlor,  were 
stayed,  and  a  gush  of  tears  came  to  the  relief  of  the  ex 
cited  brain.  He  heard  the  appeal  of  a  little  helpless 
life,  placed  by  Providence  in  his  hands.  Should  he, 
could  he,  be  faithless  to  the  trust  ?  As  he  stood  listen 
ing  to  the  feeble  cry  of  the  infant,  his  mother's  yoice 
broke  into  a  plaintive  lullaby,  to  which  the  cradle  kept 
time — a  sweet,  dreamy  melody,  not  of  joy,  but  of  min 
istry — which  recalled  to  him  sweet  faces  of  little  broth 
ers  and  sisters  long  since  turned  to  dust.  Still  the  little 
voice  wailed  on,  still  the  mother  sang  her  plaintive  lul 
laby,  still  the  gently-rocking  cradle  kept  time,  and  still 
Arthur  stood  where  the  baby's  voice  arrested  him. 
Under  the  influence  of  the  two  voices,  he  learned  in  a 
few  minutes  to  front  calmly  the  life  before  him.  Into 
his  hands  God  had  given  a  helpless  woman — that 
woman  his  mother — a  helpless  child — that  child  his 
brother.  God  had  honored  him  by  a  great  confidence, 
and  he  felt  his  heart  springing  up  into  heroic  resolution. 
He  would  devote  himself  to  them,  trusting  God  to  take 
care  of  and  prosper  him.  He  would  outlive  humilia 
tion,  contumely,  and  hardship.  Outside  of  the  realm 
of  love  and  of  duty,  he  would  know  no  life. 

Strong,  and  at  peace  with  himself  once  more,  he  lifted 
the  latch  of  the  door  that  divided  him  from  his  mother, 
and  approached  her  with  a  smile.  The  cradle  was 
empty,  and  the  baby  was  sleeping  on  her  bosom.  She 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  49 

lifted  her  desponding  eyes  to  Arthur,  and  heaving  a 
sigh,  asked  him  what  had  been  decided  upon. 

"  I  am  going  to  work  for  wages,  mother,  and  shall 
board  at  home  with  you,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  Who  has  been  in  the  room  with  you  ?  I  heard  a 
strange  voice." 

"  That  was  Mr.  Buggies,  of  Hucklebury  Run." 

"  What  could  he  want  here  1 " 

"  We  called  him  in.    I  am  going  to  work  for  him." 

"  In  the  factory  1 " 

"  In  the  factory." 

"  O  Arthur ! "  and  the  poor  woman  hid  her  face 
in  her  handkerchief,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"  What  is  there  to  cry  about,  mother  1 " 

"  To  think  that  you  should  be  called  to  suffer  so  for 
me,"  and  his  mother  renewed  her  sobbing. 

Gently  the  tall  boy  dropped  upon  his  knees,  gently 
he  took  his  mother's  hand,  gently  he  bent  over  and 
kissed  the  soft  cheek  of  the  sleeping  baby,  and  then  he 
said,  "  I  want  to  tell  you,  mother,  all  about  what  I  am 
going  to  do,  and  what  I  wish  you  to  do.  I  am  going  to 
work  for  Mr.  Ruggles.  I  do  not  like  him,  and  I  expect 
a  great  many  hardships,  but  I  am  young  and  strong.  I 
can  get  along  with  my  work,  and  with  him,  if  I  can  have 
you  happy  at  home.  Now  you  must  not  worry  about 
me,  nor  ask  me  questions.  I  shall  go  in  the  morning 
and  come  at  night,  and  I  shall  do  this  until  I  find  some 
better  way  to  do.  You  must  be  as  cheerful  as  you  can, 
and  if  you  feel  badly  about  me,  don't  tell  me  of  it.  It 
will  fret  me,  and  do  more  to  make  me  wretched  than 
all  that  old  Ruggles  can  do.  One  of  these  years  it  will 
3 


50 

all  be  right,  and  I  shall  have  a  business,  and  we  can  live 
together,  and  be  happy.  It  will  be  lonely  here,  but  the 
neighbors  will  be  kind,  and  you  can  visit  here  and  there, 
and  little  Jamie  will  grow  and  be  company  for  you, 
and — and — you  will  be  cheerful,  will  you  not,  mother  1 " 
and  he  kissed  his  mother's  forehead. 

She  could  not  take  her  handkerchief  from  her  eyes  ; 
she  could  not  speak.     She  only  pressed  his  hand. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  51 


CHAPTER   IV. 

ARTHUR  BLAGUE   GETS    HIS    HAND    IN,   AND    THE    PROPRIETOR 
MEETS   WITH   AN  UNEXPECTED   REVOLUTION. 

ARTHUR  still  had  writing  to  do  in  finishing  up  his 
father's  accounts,  and  a  few  weeks  were  passed  in  this 
employment  before  he  was  ready  to  begin  work  at  the 
Run.  In  the  meantime,  he  had  visited  Ruggles,  and 
entered  into  a  formal  engagement  with  him. 

On  a  frosty  morning  toward  the  last  of  October,  he 
rose  before  daylight,  quietly  crept  down  stairs,  made  a 
fire  in  the  kitchen,  and  cooked  for  himself  a  simple 
breakfast.  He  found  his  dinner  already  snugly  packed 
in  a  little  basket — the  timely  work  of  his  mother  on  the 
previous  evening.  The  daylight  had  just  begun  to  tinge 
the  sky,  as  he  stepped  forth  from  his  home,  and  only 
here  and  there  in  the  village  rose  the  smoke  from  the 
early  kindled  fires.  The  Run  was  a  mile  from  the  vil 
lage,  and  only  farms  and  farm-houses  lay  between.  He 
supposed  he  should  be  early  at  the  mill,  so,  though  the 
air  was  brisk,  he  loitered  thoughtfully  along  the  un 
even  highway,  recalling  the  past  and  revolving  the 
future.  Unmindful  of  the  passage  of  time,  he  found 


52 

himself  suddenly  within  sight  of  the  tall  chimney  of  the 
mill.     The  buildings  were  still  buried  in  the  valley. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  fully  decided  on  this 
step  of  life,  his  heart  sank  within  him.  He  shrank  from 
the  eyes  that  would  be  fixed  upon  him,  the  sneers  that 
would  reach  his  ear,  and  the  subjection  of  his  will  to 
that  of  a  man  whom,  in  his  inmost  soul,  he  abhorred. 
At  length,  he  discarded  these  details  ;  and  a  dull  under 
current  of  dread  took  their  place,  while  he  endeavored 
to  engage  his  mind  with  the  most  insignificant  observa 
tions  and  incidents.  There  was  a  long  golden  cloud  in 
the  east,  which  only  lacked  a  fin  of  being  a  model  salmon. 
He  walked  under  a  maple  whose  foliage  frost  had 
changed  to  amber,  and  dropped  ankle-deep  upon  the 
ground,  and  wondered  what  he  should  do  with  those 
leaves  if  they  were  all  golden  eagles.  He  picked  up  an 
apple  in  the  street,  tossed  it  into  the  air,  caught  it  in  his 
hand,  bit  into  it,  and  then  threw  it  at  a  cat  sneaking  un 
der  a  fence. 

Lingering  in  this  aimless  kind  of  way,  and  pausing 
to  hear  any  sound  that  struck  his  ear,  he  was  still  a 
hundred  rods  from  the  mill  when  the  sun  rose,  fresh 
.and  bright,  above  the  eastern  hills.  The  tall  chimney 
was  vomiting  forth  thick  masses  of  black  smoke,  the 
hum  of  machinery  with  the  pulsating  din  of  many  looms 
filled  the  air,  and  a  few  minutes'  walk  brought  him  to 
the  brow  of  the  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  the  factory 
and  the  little  hamlet  of  Hucklebury  Run. 

.  Young  men  and  young  women,  and  boys  and  girls, 
were  pouring  out  of  the  door  of  the  large  boarding- 
house,  and  crowding  into  the  mill.  Arthur  waited  un 
til  all  had  disappeared  within  the  black  door,  and  then 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  53 

boldly  pushed  down  the  hill.  As  he  entered  the  yard, 
he  became  conscious  of  many  eyes  at  the  windows. 
Dirty-looking  wenches,  with  arms  bare  to  the  elbows, 
were  tittering  behind  the  dirtier  glass.  Frowzy-headed 
men  passed  him  in  the  yard,  and  gave  him  an  offensively 
familiar  greeting.  What  struck  the  young  man  with 
peculiar  force  was  the  perversive  spirit  of  old  Ruggles 
in  all  these  people.  They  acted  like  him,  they  looked 
like  him,  they  all  seemed  to  have  sold  themselves  to 
him.  He  understood  old  Buggies'  remark  now — "  We 
are  all  alike  down  to  the  Run." 

Uncertain  where  to  look  for  his  employer,  he  ap 
proached  the  door,  and  hailed  a  boy — barefoot,  and  with 
no  clothes  upon  him  but  shirt  and  trousers — and  in 
quired  if  he  knew  where  Mr.  Ruggles  was. 

"  He  ain't  very  fur  off,"  replied  the  boy  with  a  grin, 
and  in  an  undertone  that  showed  that  he  was  afraid  to 
speak  louder. 

"  I  wish  to  see  him,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Stand  right  where  you  be  then,"  said  the  boy. 
"  That's  the  quickest  way.  You  can't  find  him  afollerin' 
him  ;  he's  too  fast  for  that.  Old  Gabriel  will  blow  his 
horn  afore  you've  stood  here  five  minutes,"  and  the  lit 
tle  wretch  looked  around  him  carefully  and  cunningly, 
to  see  if  he  were  overheard. 

Arthur  understood  and  smiled  at  the  allusion  of  the 
boy  to  his  employer's  nasal  note,  and  felt  that  possibly 
it  might  announce  the  day  of  doom  to  him. 

The  boy  cocked  his  eye  suddenly,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant.  He  had 
detected  the  signs  of  the  old  man's  coming,  and  was 
hardly  in  the  mill  before  that  individual  ran  down  the 


54:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEE: 

stairs  at  the  foot  of  which  Arthur  stood,  taking  three 
steps  at  a  leap,  and  blowing  his  nose  at  the  landing. 

"  On  hand,  eh  ?  "  was  his  greeting  of  the  new  oper 
ative. 

"  On  hand,"  was  the  response. 

"  Little  late  this  morning,  but  never  mind — it's  the 
first  day,  and  we  won't  be  particular  to  start  with." 

"  Late  !  "  exclaimed  Arthur  in  astonishment,  "  why, 
I  saw  the  hands  just  go  in." 

"  Oh !  yes,  they've  jest  had  their  breakfast.  They 
work  an  hour  before  breakfast,  by  candle-light,  you 
know."  The  old  man  grinned  as  he  said  this,  and 
looked  at  Arthur  curiously,  to  see  how  he  took  it. 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  be  here  an  hour  before  break 
fast  every  morning  ?  "  inquired  the  young  man. 

"  Well,"  replied  old  Ruggles,  "  we'll  be  as  easy 
with  you  as  we  can,  you  know,  but  we  can't  show  many 
favors.  I'm  here  an  hour  before  breakfast  myself. 
That's  the  way  we  get  our  living,  and  we  all  fare  alike 
down  here  to  the  Run.  I  work  jest  as  hard  as  my 
hands,  and  my  hands  are  jest  as  good  as  I  am." 

This,  by  the  way,  was  the  method  by  which  the 
low-bred  proprietor  of  Hucklebury  Run  settled  all  the 
complaints  of  those  in  his  employ.  They  worked  no 
more  hours  and  no  harder  than  he  ;  they  fared  as  well 
as  he.  That  was  true,  and  if  a  workman  were  not  con 
tent  with  that,  he  had  the  alternative  of  leaving,  pro 
vided  he  could  raise  money  enough  to  get  away. 

Arthur  was  not  to  be  frightened  away  from  the  Run 
without  a  trial ;  so  he  said  :  "  Mr.  Ruggles,  I  am  ready 
for  work,  and  will  conform  myself  to  your  rules  so  far 
as  I  can." 


AN   AMEKICAN   STOEY.  55 

"  Well,  I  really  haven't  any  thing  for  you  to  do  in 
the  mill  this  morning,"  responded  Ruggles,  scratching  his 
head.  "  Let's  see — let's  see.  What  do  you  say  to  going 
out  into  the  pasture  and  mowing  bushes  with  Cheek  1 " 

"  That's  what  you  call  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  I  sup 
pose,"  said  Arthur,  with  poorly  disguised  contempt. 

"  Very  well,"  said  old  Ruggles.  "  Stay  here,  and 
do  my  work,  and  I'll  mow  bushes.  I  had  rather  be 
out  of  doors  than  in." 

This  of  course  settled  the  matter.  The  practicability 
of  Arthur's  stepping  into  the  shoes  of  the  manager  of  the 
mill,  and  sending  that  gentleman  out  to  clean  up  a 
shrubby  pasture  with  Cheek,  one  of  his  hopeful  opera 
tives,  was  entirely  evident  to  the  young  man,  but  he 
was  too  polite  to  avail  himself  of  the  offer.  So  he  said : 
"  Set  me  to  work  where  you  will,  and  let  me  have  a 
place  in  the  mill  as  soon  as  you  can." 

The  old  man  took  down  a  bush-hook  that  hung  upon 
a  post  near  the  mill,  and  then  called  Cheek,  who  straight 
way  appeared  from  the  basement,  coming  up  the  stairs 
through  a  cloud  of  steam  that  issued  from  the  passage. 

"  Cheek,  you're  to  mow  bushes  in  the  mountain- 
pasture  with  this  new  hand  to-day.  Show  him  how  it's 
done,  and  do  a  better  day's  work  than  you  did  the  last 
time  you  were  up  there,  or  I'll  show  yon  how  it's  done. 
Do  you  hear  ?  " 

Cheek  heard,  nodded  his  head  a  great  number  of 
times,  took  off  a  very  dirty  striped  apron,  rolled  down 
a  very  dirty  pair  of  shirt-sleeves,  put  on  an  old  cloth  cap 
with  the  visor  turned  up,  took  down  another  bush-hook, 
and  said,  "  Come  on." 

The  young  men  were  of  about  equal  age,  though 


56 

Arthur  was  much  the  taller  of  the  two.  Old  Euggles 
stood  and  watched  them  as  they  passed  out  of  sight, 
with  a  grin  of  satisfaction,  then  blew  his  nose  and 
plunged  into  the  mill. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  the 
master,  Cheek  exclaimed  :  "  I  vow,  Blague,  you're  the 
last  feller  I  ever  expected  to  see  in  this  hole." 

"  This  is  the  last  hole  I  ever  expected  to  be  in,"  re 
sponded  Arthur  ;  adding,  "  how  did  you  know  my  name 
was  Blague  1 " 

"  Oh  !  I've  heard  all  about  you.  The  old  man  has 
been  bragging  that  he'd  got  hold  of  one  of  the  Crampton 
aristocracy,  and  was  going  to  put  him  through  a  course 
of  sprouts." 

"  Those  that  grow  in  the  pasture  are  the  first  of  the 
course,  I  suppose,"  said  Arthur  drily. 

Cheek  laughed,  and  said  that  was  good.  Then  he 
threw  down  his  bush-hook,  and  cried,  "  Halt !  Now, 
Blague,"  said  he,  coming  up  and  laying  a  hand  on  each 
of  Arthur's  shoulders,  "  don't  you  remember  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  I've  seen  you  before,  but  I  cannot  tell  when 
nor  where.  Possibly  I  have  seen  you  in  my  father's 
store." 

"  Not  often,  but  you  knew  me  when  I  was  a  shaver," 
(by  which  term  Cheek  meant  a  very  small  boy,)  "  and 
I  knew  you  when  you  was  a  shaver.  You  remember 
old  Bob  Lampson — drunken  old  coot — he  was  my 
father.  I'm  Tom  Lampson,  and  you  gave  me  a  pair  ol 
shoes  once.  Do  you  twig  now  ?  " 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  remember  you.  What  do  they  call  you 
Cheek  for  ?  " 

"  Look  here,"  said  Tom  Lampson ;  and  lifting  his 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  57 

long  hair  with  one  hand,  and  pulling  down  his  shirt- 
collar  very  low  with  the  other,  he  displayed  a  cheek 
very  black  with  gunpowder.  "  I  got  blowed  up  one 
Fourth  of  July,  and  did  this  ;  and  ever  since,  the  boys 
have  called  me  Cheek.  I  don't  mind  it  now.  I  vow  I 
b'lieve  I  like  it  better.  They  never  call  me  Tom  Lamp- 
son  now,  but  I  think  of  old  Bob  Lampson — old  scamp — 
my  father,  you  know." 

"Don't  talk  so  about  your  father,"  said  Arthur. 
"  I  don't  like  to  hear  you." 

Cheek  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  the  unpleasant 
memory  of  his  father  had  got  under  his  jacket.  "  I 
guess,"  said  he,  "  you  don't  remember  him  very  well. 
If  he  had  tanned  you,  and  swore  your  head  off,  and 
abused  your  mother  till  he  used  her  up,  you  wouldn't 
like  him  any  better  than  I  do — old — well,  never 
mind !  " 

At  a  motion  from  Arthur,  Cheek  resumed  his  im 
plement,  and  both  moved  on  toward  the  pasture.  Ar 
thur  comprehended  the  character  of  Cheek  very  readily. 
He  was  a  good-natured  fellow,  whom  no  amount  of  bad 
treatment  could  thoroughly  demoralize.  He  was  gar- 
ulous  and  shallow,  but  he  had  a  kind  heart  and  a  degree 
of  genuine  sensibility.  He  had  always  remembered 
Arthur  Blague  with  affectionate  respect.  This  morning 
he  pitied  him,  because  he  saw  that  his  mind  was 
troubled,  and  knew  there  was  sufficient  reason  for  it. 
He  wondered  what  he  could  do  to  make  him  feel  better. 

"  Blague,"   said   Cheek,   (and  when   he   called  him 

Blague,  instead  of  Arthur,  he  intended  it  as  the  more 

respectful   and   pleasant   style    of    address,)    "Blague, 

you'll  find  that  you  and  I  ain't  exactly  like  the  rest  of 

3* 


58  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEK: 

'em,  and  now  I  want  always  to  be  your  friend,  and  you 
shall  always  be  my  friend." 

"  Certainly,  Cheek,  we  shall  always  be  friends,  of 
course,"  responded  Arthur  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  I  mean,"  said  Cheek  earnestly,  "  that  I  will 
always  stick  to  you,  and  you  shall  always  stick  to  me. 
Give  us  your  hand  on  that,"  and  Cheek  seized  Arthur's 
outstretched  hand,  and  shook  it  violently.  The  act 
seemed  to  give  his  affectionate  nature  a  great  deal  of 
satisfaction,  and  he  burst  tunefully  into  "  Away  with 
melancholy,"  the  name  of  that  somber  passion  sounding 
very  much  in  Arthur's  ears  like  "  melon-colic." 

When  the  song  had  subsided,  Cheek  turned  to  Ar 
thur,  and  said :  "  What  do  you  s'pose  is  the  reason 
you're  so  much  bigger  than  I  am  ?' " 

Arthur  replied  :    "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  It's  because,"  said  Cheek,  "  that  you've  always  had 
enough  to  eat,  and  I  haven't.  I  haven't  seen  what  you've 
got  there,  of  course,  (looking  at  Arthur's  dinner-basket, 
and  alluding  to  its  contents,)  but  I'll  bet  a  goose  I  haven't 
seen  so  much  good,  wholesome  victuals  in  three  months 
as  you've  got  in  your  basket  there.  I  am  always  hungry 
— hungry  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other.  I'm  hungry 
now — hungry  enough  to  eat  a  jackass,  and  chase  the 
driver  a  mile." 

Arthur  laughed  long  and  loud,  which  pleased  Cheek 
very  much.  So  he  repeated  the  statement,  that  Arthur 
might  get  more  satisfaction  from  it,  if  possible,  and  then 
added  that  it  was  "  a  true  fact,  and  no  mistake." 

"  You  ought  to  see  the  boarders  skin  that  table 
once,"  continued  Cheek,  "  regular  grab  game.  Every 
thing  comes  on  together,  and  the  pie  goes  first.  Some- 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  59 

times  we  put  it  into  our  pockets,  so's  to  be  sure  of  it, 
and  eat  it  when  we  get  ready.  You  might  carry  one 
of  them  boarding-house  pies  in  your  pocket  for  a  year 
without  hurting  the  pocket  any,  or  the  pie  either,  any 
more  than  if  it  was  a  whetstone.  But  you  ought  to  see 
the  old  man  when  he  comes  in  to  weigh  the  victuals,  to 
see  if  he  isn't  feeding  us  too  much." 

"  But  he  doesn't  do  that  ? "  said  Arthur  incredulously. 
"  Don't  he,  though !  I've  seen  him  weigh  every 
mouthful  that  went  on  to  the  table,  and  sit  and  look  at 
us,  and  figure  with  his  little  black  pencil  all  dinner-time. 
Then's  the  time  we  put  in.  Didn't  I  have  a  time  with 
him  one  day  2  I  vow,  wasn't  that  a  time  !  " 

Cheek  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  as  if  another  very 
unpleasant  memory  had  got  under  his  jacket. 
"  Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Arthur. 
"  It  was  when  I  first  went  there,"  said  Cheek.  "  I 
shouldn't  dare  to  do  it  now.  We  all  get  afraid  of  the 
old  man  after  we've  been  with  him  a  while.  You  see 
he  came  in  one  day,  and  we  all  heard  a  jingle,  and  knew 
the  steelyards  were  round.  So  we  all  dipped  in  strong, 
and  said  nothing.  I  saw  what  they  were  up  to,  so  I 
stuck  my  fork  into  a  chunk  of  corned  beef  as  big  as 
your  two  fists.  The  old  man  was  mad  enough,  I  tell 
you.  '  Cheek,'  says  he,  '  you're  a  pig,  to  take  such  a 
piece  of  beef  as  that.'  Says  I,  '  Not  as  you  knows  of.' 
Says  he,  '  You're  a  pig.'  Says  I,  '  I  ain't  a  pig ; '  and  I 
took  up  the  chunk  of  meat  on  my  fork,  and  held  it  where 
all  the  boarders  could  see  it,  and  says  I,  *  Do  you  s'pose 
a  pig  would  eat  such  a  piece  of  meat  as  that  1  Smell 
of  it,  Mr.  Euggles  ! '  Everybody  at  the  table  looked 
scared,  but  I  hadn't  learned  him  then.  He  came 


60 

straight  towards  me,  and  I  held  out  the  piece  for  him 
to  smell  of,  and  just  as  he  got  his  nose  to  it  I  gave  it  a 
little  dab,  and  he  jumped  as  if  something  had  hit  him. 
I  s'pose  it  was  a  little  hot.  Wasn't  he  mad  ?  He  knocked 
my  fork  out  of  my  hand,  and  then  he  kicked  me  clear 
into  the  yard.  I  think  I've  got  a  little  place  somewhere 
on  me  now  that  has  been  numb  ever  since  ;  "  and  Cheek 
felt  around  upon  his  back  to  see  if  he  could  find  it. 

"  Here's  the  place,"  said  Cheek  at  last ;  and  lifting 
some  clumsy  bars,  he  turned  Arthur  into  the  field  of  his 
day's  labor — a  barren,  rambling  pasture,  more  friendly, 
apparently,  to  the  growth  of  scrub-oaks  and  blackberry 
bushes  than  to  grass.  Arthur  soon  got  the  swing  of 
the  hook,  and  laid  about  him  right  lustily. 

"  You'll  get  sick  of  it  before  night,"  said  Cheek,  "  if 
that's  the  way  you  pitch  in."  Cheek  then  illustrated 
the  manner  in  which  he  proposed  to  perform  the  labor 
of  the  day. 

"I  shall  work  faithfully,  Cheek,"  replied  Arthur; 
"  you  will  do  as  you  choose,  of  course." 

"  Well,  you're  right,  I  s'pose,"  said  Cheek,  "  but  I 
can  tell  you  one  thing — the  more  you  do  for  old  Rug- 
gles,  the  more  you  may  do.  We  old  hands  all  under 
stand  it." 

Arthur  had  worked  half  an  hour  vigorously,  when 
his  hands  began  to  feel  sore,  and,  drawing  on  a  pair  of 
gloves  for  their  protection,  he  proceeded.  Straightening 
up,  at  length,  for  a  little  rest,  he  turned  to  Cheek,  and 
inquired  what  he  meant  by  saying  that  everybody  be 
came  afraid  of  the  old  man  after  living  with  him  a  while. 

"  Why,  you  see,  he  haunts  us,"  replied  Cheek,  lean 
ing  upon  his  hook.  "  He's  always  'round.  If  three 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  61 

heads  get  together  in  the  mill,  off  goes  his  nose  right 
over  their  shoulders.  If  anybody  laughs,  off  goes  his 
nose  again.  He's  always  within  ten  feet  of  everybody, 
and — I  don't  know,  we  kind  o'  dread  him,  and  then  we 
get  to  hating  him,  and  somehow  we  all  settle  down  at 
last  into  being  afraid  of  him.  There's  Big  Joslyn — 
strong  enough  to  lick  a  regiment  of  him — he'll  swing  a 
hundred-and-sixty-spindled  jack  like  a  feather,  but  he's 
as  afraid  of  old  Ruggles  as  if  he  was  a  tiger.  The  old 
man  will  abuse  him  up  hill  and  down,  and  he'll  stand 
and  take  it  as  meek  as  Moses.  Somehow  or  other  he 
gets  'em  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  gets  'em  all  1 " 

"  Well,  take  Big  Joslyn  now.  He's  got  a  wife  and 
children,  and  he  doesn't  get  wages  enough  for  'em  all  to 
live  on,  so  the  old  man  lets  him  get  in  debt,  and  he 
never  lets  him  get  out  of  debt.  There  isn't  a  hand  in 
the  mill  who  isn't  in  debt  in  the  same  way  ;  and  when 
the  old  fellow  gets  a  chap  there,  it's  all  day  with  him. 
He  never  expects  to  leave  Hucklebury  Run,  unless  he 
cuts  stick,  or  goes  out  on  wheels  in  a  black  box  that 
smells  of  vinegar.  Them  that  have  families  can't 
peep,  you  see,  and  the  old  man  makes  'em  take  things 
out  of  the  store,  and  pays  'em  in  all  sorts  of  ways." 

"  Out  of  what  store  1 "  inquired  Arthur,  very  glad 
indeed  to  be  placed  on  his  guard. 

"  Oh !  he's  got  a  store  up  in  the  mill,  and  you  ought 
to  see  it.  You  see  he  sells  some  of  his  nigger-cloth  for 
goods,  so  as  to  accommodate  his  hands,  he  says.  I 
bought  this  old  cap  there,  when  it  was  new,"  (Cheek 
touched  it  with  his  finger)  "  and  it  smelt  so  strong  of 
codfish  that  it  kept  my  mouth  watering  for  a  month. 


62  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK  : 

You  see  every  thing  goes  in  together,  and  the  thing  that 
smells  the  strongest  gets  the  lead.  If  you've  a  mind  to 
try  it,"  pursued  Cheek,  anxious  to  impress  the  truth  of 
his  assertions  upon  Arthur,  and  handing  his  cap  toward 
him,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  could  find  a  little  cod 
fish  about  that  now." 

Arthur  laughed,  and  told  him  he  would  take  his 
word  for  it. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Cheek,  recalling  the  hopeless  con 
dition  of  Big  Joslyn,  "  that  when  a  feller  gets  tied  to  a 
wife,  and  has  a  lot  of  little  chickadees  around  him, 
there's  no  help  for  him  if  he  once  gets  into  old  Ruggles's 
hands." 

"  How  do  the  girls  get  along  with  him  1 "  inquired 
Arthur. 

"  Well,  they  wilt  to  it,"  replied  Cheek.  "  I  know 
every  girl  in  the  mill,  and  they  get  along  a  mighty 
sight  better'n  the  men.  Some  of  'em  will  put  on  their 
sun-bonnets  and  cry  all  day.  There  are  girls  there  that 
have  regular  cryipg  days.  I  always  know  when  there's 
a  shower  coming.  A  girl  sits  down  to  the  table  in  the 
morning  with  the  corners  of  her  mouth  drawn  down, 
eats  just  a  bite  of  breakfast,  then  on  goes  the  sun- 
bonnet,  and  just  as  soon  as  she  gets  her  looms  running, 
and  all  ready  for  it,  she  begins  to  cry,  and  cries  till  the 
mill  stops.  I  used  to  kind  o'  pity  them  at  first,  but 
I've  got  used  to  it  now,  and  don't  mind  it  so  much." 

"  What  do  they  cry  for  ?  "  inquired  Arthur. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  knoiv.  I  don't  s'pose  they  do.  They 
feel  bad  promisc'usly,  I  reckon,  and  don't  know  what 
else  to  do.  They  all  come  out  bright  enough  next  day, 
if  nobody  says  any  thing  to  'em.  It's  a  kind  of  a 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  63 

fashion  at  the  Run  for  girls  to  have  crying  days.     All  of 
'em  cry,  but  them  that  have  long  hair." 

"  Long  hair  I  "  exclaimed  Arthur  with  a  smile, 
"  what  has  long  hair  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  they  all  have  to  get  something  to  take  up 
their  minds,  you  know — kind  of  amuse  them,  you 
know,"  pursued  Cheek,  in  explanation.  "  If  a  girl  has 
long  hair,  she  takes  in  a  comb  regular  when  she  goes  to 
work,  and  her  hair  isn't  done  up  all  day.  She  gets  her 
looms  going,  and  then  she  draws  her  comb  down 
through  her  hair,  and  keeps  doing  so  till  there's  a 
bobbin  out.  Oh !  I  tell  you,  combs  and  sun-bonnets  are 
thick  some  days ;  but  they  work  first-rate  when  they 
cry,  for  they're  always  mum  then.  When  old  Ruggles 
comes  in  and  sees  the  sun-bonnets  thick,  he  knows  it's 
all  right  for  one  day,  so  he  just  blows  his  nose  and 
leaves  'em." 

At  this  instant  the  young  men  were  interrupted,  by 
the  accustomed  note  of  warning,  that  their  employer 
was  with  them.  They  had  not  seen  where  he  came 
from,  and  did  not  know  how  long  he  had  been  near  them. 

"  How  are  you  getting  along  ?  "  said  old  Ruggles. 
"  You  find  Cheek  very  good  company,  don't  you,  Ar 
thur  1 " 

Cheek  had  no  sooner  become  aware  of  his  master's 
presence  than  he  began  to  lay  about  him  with  great 
diligence.  Arthur  understood  the  taunt,  but  replied 
quietly,  that  Cheek  seemed  to  be  a  very  good  fellow, 
indeed. 

Old  Ruggles,  accustomed  to  no  replies  from  his 
workmen,  looked  up  and  down  Arthur's  cool  front  in 
astonishment.  There  was  no  servile  fear  in  that  eye, 


64:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

no  nervous  apprehension.  Failing  to  look  him  into 
activity,  he  broke  into  a  low,  sneering  laugh,  and  said, 
"  Well,  that  is  very  fine  !  " 

"  You  seem  amused,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Amused  !  "  exclaimed  Ruggles.  "  Cheek,  look 
here  !  " 

Cheek  feared  a  scene,  and  came  up  trembling  and 
afraid. 

"  Cheek,  here's  something  you  never  see  afore  in 
your  life.  It's  worth  looking  at.  Here's  a  young  man 
at  work  for  me  in  gloves  !  " 

Arthur's  face  burnt  for  a  moment  with  intense 
anger,  for  the  words  were  said  in  the  most  insulting 
way  possible.  Then  he  recalled  his  good  resolutions, 
and  checked  the  hasty  response  that  sprang  to  his 
lips. 

"  My  hands  are  not  used  to  this  work,"  said  he,  "  and 
they  are  already  blistered.  I  shall  wear  gloves  as  long 
as  they  do  not  interfere  with  my  work."  Having  said 
this,  he  coolly  turned  his  back  on  his  employer,  and 
resumed  his  labor. 

Old  Ruggles  did  not  know  what  to  say.  In  his  es 
tablishment  dependence  always  walked  hand  in  hand 
with  servility.  Somehow,  the  spirit  of  the  young  man 
must  be  broken,  but  he  could  not  decide  how  to  under 
take  the  task. 

He  watched  Arthur  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence ; 
then  he  stepped  up,  and  taking  his  bush-hook  out  of  his 
hands,  he  worked  actively  a  while,  and  handed  the  im 
plement  back  to  him  with  an  air  that  said,  "  You  have 
done  nothing  to-day  ;  work  as  I  do." 

Arthur  smiled,  and  said  :  "  You  mow  bushes  very 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  65 

well,  Mr.  Ruggles.  You  must  have  had  a  good  deal  of 
practice." 

The  old  man  replied  not  a  word,  but  went  off,  mut 
tering  something  about  "  upstarts."  As  soon  as  he  was 
out  of  sight  and  hearing,  Cheek  dropped  his  hook, 
mounted  on  a  stump,  slapped  his  hands  upon  his  thighs 
half  a  dozen  times,  and  crowed  like  a  cock.  Then  he 
threw  his  old  cap  into  the  air,  and  caught  it,  and  then 
he  came  up  to  Arthur,  and  said  :  "  I  vow,  Blague,  give 
us  your  hand.  You  are  a  trump.  There  ain't  another 
man  at  the  Run  that  would  dare  to  do  it ;  but  he's  after 
you  now.  He  won't  stop  until  he's  got  you  under  his 
thumb." 

"  Cheek,"  said  Arthur  coolly,  "  I  shall  do  for  Mr. 
Ruggles  just  as  well  as  I  can,  and  I  shall  never  be  afraid 
of  him." 

That  was  a  tedious  day  for  Arthur  Blague.  Long 
before  night  he  was  tired  and  sore ;  but  he  labored  on 
faithfully  until  after  sunset ;  and  then,  in  company  with 
Cheek,  walked  back  to  the  mill.  The  old  man  was 
away,  and,  without  waiting  for  dismissal,  he  walked 
home.  He  was  glad  that  the  evening  covered  him  from 
observation,  for  he  was  sad,  and  almost  disheartened. 
His  mother  greeted  him  on  his  return  with  a  very 
feeble  attempt  to  smile ;  but  her  eyelids  were  red  with 
weeping.  She  sat  and  *watched  him  as  he  devoured  his 
supper,  and  wondered  at  his  overflow  of  spirits.  What 
ever  might  be  his  hardships,  he  was  determined  that  his 
mother  should  know  nothing  of  them;  and  as  she 
obeyed  his  wishes,  and  refrained  from  asking  him  any 
questions,  he  got  along  very  easily  with  her. 

He  went  to  bed  early,  and  the  next  morning  break- 


66 

fasted  and  was  off  before  his  mother  awoke.  He  found 
old  Ruggles  ready  for  him — waiting  to  set  him  to  work 
in  the  mill.  He  could  not  help  noticing  a  marked 
change  in  the  expression  of  the  faces  which  greeted  him 
on  all  sides.  The  truth  was,  that  Cheek  had  been  full  of 
Blague  all  night.  The  scene  between  Ruggles  and  Ar 
thur  in  the  pasture  had  been  described  in  Cheek's  best 
style,  with  all  the  exaggerations  that  were  necessary  to 
make  an  impression.  The  men  had  all  got  hold  of  it, 
and  talked  it  over.  The  girls  had  heard  the  story,  and 
rehearsed  it  to  one  another  until  they  had  become  sur 
charged  with  admiration  of  the  young  man.  There 
were  none  but  kind  eyes  that  greeted  him  among  the 
operatives  that  morning.  All  wondered  what  Ruggles 
would  do  to  tame  him.  Cheek's  opinion  was,  that 
Blague  would  whip  the  old  man  in  less  than  five  min 
utes,  if  it  ever  came  to  that. 

"  How  are  your  hands  this  morning  1 "  inquired 
Ruggles,  as  Arthur  presented  himself  before  him. 

"  They  are  very  sore,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  That's  too  bad,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  the  master,  "  be 
cause  I  was  going  to  set  you  to  dyeing,  and  it  might 
make  'em  smart  some.  Besides,  it  ain't  work  where 
you  can  wear  gloves  very  well." 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  consult  the  condition  of  my 
hands  at  all,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  Oh !  very  well !  You  can  go  down  stairs,  and 
Cheek  will  show  you  what  to  do." 

Arthur  went  down  through  the  same  column  of 
steam  out  of  which  Cheek  issued  the  previous  morning, 
and  found  that  young  man  in  a  very  lively  state  of 
mind,  and  up  to  his  elbows  in  a  dyeing  vat.  The  at- 


AN  AMERICAN   STOEY.  67 

mosphere  was  hot,  heavy,  almost  stifling.  The  room 
was  full  of  the  noise  of  heavy  gearing,  and  the  constant 
plash  of  water  in  the  near  wheel-pit.  Objects  a  few 
feet  distant  could  not  be  seen  in  consequence  of  the 
steam  that  rolled  out  of  the  vats. 

Cheek  explained  to  Arthur  the  nature  of  his  labor, 
and  set  him  to  work.  The  moment  his  hands  were 
bathed  in  the  poisonous  liquid  they  became  as  painful  as 
if  they  had  been  bathed  in  fire.  This  was  what  he  antici 
pated,  and  he  was  prepared  to  endure  it.  By  degrees, 
however,  sensibility  was  benumbed,  and  he  worked  on 
with  tolerable  comfort.  He  was  disturbed  by  the  fre 
quent  visits  of  the  master,  who  would  stand  by  him 
sometimes  for  several  minutes,  and  tell  him  how  well 
he  took  hold  of  business.  "  When  I  want  to  take  the 
starch  out  of  a  man,  I  always  put  him  in  here,"  said  old 
Buggies  with  a  grin. 

Arthur  took  no  notice  of  these  taunts,  but  kept  on 
with  his  work,  until  the  bell  rang.  The  ponderous 
wheel  in  the  pit  stood  still,  and  the  snarling,  grinding 
din  of  the  gearing  was  hushed.  The  world  never 
seemed  so  still  to  Arthur  as  it  did  then.  The  noise 
of  the  ever-revolving  machinery  had  seemed  to  crowd 
out  of  his  consciousness  all  the  rest  of  the  universe ; 
and  when  it  stopped,  it  seemed  as  if  the  world  had 
ceased  to  move.  Putting  on  his  coat,  and  taking  his 
dinner-basket  in  his  hand,  he  ascended  the  stairs,  and 
sought  a  quiet  place  in  the  mill  where  he  could  eat  his 
lunch  undisturbed.  This  he  had  hardly  succeeded  in 
doing,  when  old  Ruggles,  making  a  rapid  passage 
through  the  mill,  discovered  him.  "  I've  been  looking 
for  you,  sir,"  said  the  master. 


68  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

"  Well,  sir,"  responded  Arthur,  rising  and  brushing 
the  crumbs  from  his  lap,  "  you  have  found  me,  and  I 
am  at  your  service." 

The  old  man  had  really  begun  to  feel  very  uncom 
fortably  about  Arthur.  He  saw  that  the  young  man 
was  determined  to  do  his  duty,  and  to  serve  him  faith 
fully.  He  had  become  indistinctly  conscious  that  there 
was  nothing  in  Ruggles,  the  master,  to  inspire  fear  in 
Arthur,  the  hired  workman.  He  had  found  a  character 
which  he  could  not  overtop  nor  undermine ;  and  he 
knew,  too,  that  he  was  an  object  of  contempt  to  a 
young  man  whose  heart  was  pure  and  true.  He  had 
begun  to  find  that  his  attempts  to  wound  the  young 
man's  feelings  reacted  unpleasantly  upon  himself.  He 
was  the  man  whose  pride  was  wounded,  and  not  Arthur. 

Therefore,  when  Arthur  rose  so  readily,  and  so  re 
spectfully,  and  told  him  he  was  at  his  service,  the  old 
man  hesitated,  and  became  half-ashamed  of  a  trick  that 
he  had  planned  for  Arthur's  humiliation.  Then  he 
stammered  and  lied.  He  thought,  he  said,  that  perhaps 
Arthur  would  like  a  little  relief  from  his  confinement  in 
the  basement,  arid  he  wanted  to  have  him  take  his  horse 
and  go  to  the  village  for  him.  His  object  was  simply 
to  have  him  shown  up  to  the  village  of  Crampton  as 
the  servant — the  errand-boy — of  old  Ruggles  of  Huckle- 
bury  Run.  Arthur  told  him  he  would  go  very  willing 
ly,  (and  thereby  was  guilty  of  a  lie,  with  such  a 
blending  of  all  the  colors  of  the  spectrum  of  truth  in  it, 
that  it  was  white,)  and  inquired  what  his  errand  was. 

At  this  moment  the  bell  for  the  recommencement 
of  work  sounded,  and  the  men  and  women  came  pour 
ing  into  the  mill.  Seeing  the  old  man  and  Arthur  in 


AN    AMERICAN    STOKY.  69 

conversation,  they  paused,  as  if  anxious  to  overhear 
what  was  passing  between  them. 

"  You  will  go  first,"  said  the  master,  in  a  loud  and 
insolently  dictatorial  tone,  "  to  the  post-office,  and  get 
the  newspapers,  and  then  down  to  old  Leach's,  and  get  a 
barrel  of  soap." 

Arthur  smiled. 

"  Well,  sir,  what  are  you  laughing  about  1 "  inquired 
the  old  man  savagely. 

"I  was  only  thinking,"  replied  Arthur,  "  what  a 
suggestive  combination  newspapers  and  soap  were." 

The  very  dirty  audience  tittered,  and  the  dirty  pro 
prietor  looked  daggers. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we  need  newspapers  and 
soap  here,  sir  ?  Do  you  mean  to  insult  me  and  my 
hands  1 "  and  the  proprietor  grew  white  with  anger. 

"  I  never  insulted  anybody  in  my  life,  Mr.  Ruggles. 
As  for  the  soap  and  the  newspapers,  I  think  the  combi 
nation  an  excellent  one  anywhere,  and  I  suppose  you 
need  the  articles  here,  or  you  wouldn't  send  for 
them." 

The  old  man  turned  angrily  round  upon  the  gaping 
operatives,  and  said :  "  Go  to  your  work ;  don't  you 
know  the  bell  has  stopped  ringing  1 " 

They  went  off  smiling,  and  exchanging  significant 
looks  with  each  other.  Arthur  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow,  and  seeing  the  horse  and  the  accustomed  truck- 
wagon  waiting  for  him,  he  took  out  his  gloves,  drew 
them  on  over  his  stained  hands,  and  asked  his  employer 
if  the  soap  and  the  newspapers  were  all.  The  old  man 
could  hardly  speak  for  anger,  and  the  state  of  his  mind 
was  not  improved  at  all  by  the  success  that  Arthur  had 


70  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

achieved  in  covering  with  gloves  the  mark  of  servitude 
which  the  dye  had  left  upon  his  fingers. 

"  Nothing  else,"  said  the  old  man,  answering  Ar 
thur's  question  snappishly.  "  Get  what  I  tell  you,  and 
be  quick  about  it." 

Arthur  left  the  mill,  and  as  he  stepped  into  the 
wagon  was  greeted  by  a  voice  coming  out  through  the 
steam  that  poured  from  the  basement  window,  with 
something  that  sounded  like,  "  Hit  'im  ag'in,  Blague — I'll 
hold  your  moccasins." 

Arthur  drove  off  toward  the  town,  feeling,  on  the 
whole,  very  pleasantly.  He  comprehended  perfectly 
the  trick  of  his  employer,  but  the  two  days  of  his  ex 
perience  at  the  Run  had  given  him  strength.  He  had 
not  been  humiliated.  He  had  not  been  crushed.  On 
the  contrary,  he  had  risen  to  the  point  of  laboring  where 
God  and  duty  had  placed  him,  without  being  ashamed 
of  it.  He  became  conscious  of  a  new  power  in  life,  and 
a  new  power  over  his  destiny.  Instead,  therefore,  of 
riding  through  the  village  of  Crampton  with  a  sense  of 
shame  and  mortified  vanity,  he  rode  as  self-respectfully  and 
as  confidently  as  if  he  had  been  a  king.  He  greeted  the  old 
acquaintances  whom  he  met  with  his  accustomed  freedom 
and  cordiality,  and  was  greeted  in  the  old  hearty  way  by 
all.  There  were  some  silly  people  who  thought  it  must 
be  very  "  trying  "  to  Arthur,  "  brought  up  as  he  had 
been ; "  but  all  the  sensible  people  said  that  Arthur 
Blague  was  a  brave,  good  fellow,  and  was  sure  to 
"  work  his  way  in  the  world." 

Arthur  visited  the  post-office  and  got  his  newspapers, 
and  then  he  went  to  the  soap  establishment  of  old 
Leach,  and  procured  the  soap,  and  turned  his  horse 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  71 

toward  Hucklebury  Run.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 
astonished  mother  as  he  drove  by  his  home,  and  kissed 
his  hand  to  her  merrily,  when  she,  poor  woman  !  sank 
into  a  chair  as  despairingly  as  if  she  had  seen  him  in  his 
coffin. 

Returning  to  the  mill,  he  delivered  his  package  to 
the  master  without  a  word,  helped  to  unload  the  soap, 
and  then  went  down  to  his  work  again  among  the 
vats. 

Old  Ruggles  was  very  busy  that  afternoon.  He 
was  angry,  irritable,  baffled.  Every  thing  went  wrong. 
First  he  was  in  the  weaving-room,  then  in  the  spinning- 
room,  then  in  the  carding-room.  He  went  up  stairs 
three  steps  at  a  time ;  he  plunged  down  stairs  three 
steps  at  a  time;  and  blew  his  resonant  nose  at  every 
landing.  If  he  saw  two  men  or  two  women  talking  to 
gether,  he  was  at  their  side  in  an  instant.  If  he  caught 
a  boy  out  of  his  place,  he  led  him  back  by  the  ear. 
There  was  not  a  sun-bonnet  nor  a  comb  in  use  that  after 
noon,  for  the  girls,  illustrative  of  the  ingenious  theory 
of  Cheek,  had  found  something  "  to  take  up  their  minds." 
He  was  particularly  attentive  to  the  dyeing-room,  so 
that  Arthur  and  Cheek  contented  themselves  with  mono 
syllables,  and  only  spoke  when  necessary. 

The  day  wore  on  slowly,  and  it  had  become  almost 
late  enough  for  lighting  the  lamps.  Still  the  old  man 
was  omnipresent.  Arthur  worked  diligently,  and  his 
thoughts  were  as  busy  as  the  feet  and  eyes  of  his  em 
ployer.  The  ceaseless  noise  in  his  ears  wearied  him. 
The  constant  plash  of  water  in  the  wheel-pit,  the  grind 
ing,  metallic  ring  of  the  gearing,  the  prevalent  sense  of 
motion  everywhere — the  buzz,  the  whirr,  the  clashing 


72  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

overhead,  the  stifling  atmosphere  which  enveloped  him, 
all  tended  to  oppress  him  with  sensations  and  emotions 
utterly  strange. 

In  an  instant,  every  sound  was  swept  from  his  con 
sciousness  by  a  cry  so  sharp — so  full  of  fear  and  agony 
— that  his  heart  stood  still.  The  steam  was  around 
him  and  he  could  see  nothing,  but  he  noticed  that  Check 
escaped  past  him  like  lightning,  and  rushed  up  stairs. 
In  a  moment  more,  the  gate  of  the  water-wheel  closed 
with  a  sudden  plunge,  and  the  mill  stood  still.  Another 
moment,  and  a  dozen  men  came  down  stairs  with  lamps 
in  their  hands,  and  the  first  one,  walking  a  few  steps 
into  the  darkness,  exclaimed, "  It's  old  Ruggles  himself !  " 

Arthur  approached  the  group  as  they  held  their 
lamps  over  the  prostrate  form  of  the  master  of  Huckle- 
bury  Run. 

"  He's  been  round  that  shaft,  the  Lord  knows  how 
many  times,"  exclaimed  Big  Joslyn,  casting  his  eyes 
upwards. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  for  a  minute.  All 
seemed  to  be  stupefied.  Arthur  had  stood  back  from 
them,  waiting  to  see  what  steps  they  would  take,  and 
feeling  himself  quite  too  young  to  assume  responsibility 
among  his  seniors  ;  but  they  seemed  so  thoroughly  par 
alyzed,  and  so  incapable  of  doing  any  thing  without 
direction,  that  he  pushed  through  the  group,  and,  kneel 
ing  by  the  old  man's  side,  placed  his  fingers  upon  his 
pulse.  The  prostrate  master  presented  a  sickening  as 
pect.  His  face  was  bruised  and  bleeding,  his  clothes 
were  nearly  torn  from  his  body,  his  whole  frame  seemed 
to  be  a  mass  of  bruises,  and  one  leg  was  broken,  and 
fairly  doubled  upon  itself. 


AN   AMEEICAN   STOBY.  73 

"He  is  not  dead,"  said  Arthur;  and  a  gasp  and  a 
moan  attested  the  truth  of  the  announcement.  "  Now, 
lift  him  up  carefully,  carry  him  to  his  house,  and  take 
care  of  him  till  I  send  the  doctor." 

The  young  man  waited  only  long  enough  to  be  sure 
that  the  master  would  be  carefully  looked  after,  and  then 
he  put  on  his  coat,  and  taking  his  basket  in  his  hand, 
ran  every  step  of  the  mile  that  lay  between  the  Run 
and  the  house  of  Dr.  Gilbert.  He  found  the  doctor  at 
home,  delivered  his  errand,  watched  the  little  gig  as  it 
reeled  off  toward  the  mill  at  the  highest  speed  the  little 
black  pony  could  command,  and  then,  tired  and  sore, 
and  shocked  and  sad,  entered  his  own  dwelling. 


74  MISS  GILBEKT'S  CAKI-JER: 


CHAPTEE  Y. 

DR.  GILBERT  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  "  COME  TO  AN  UNDERSTANDING." 

DR.  GILBERT  was  a  thrifty  man.  He  held  petty 
mortgages  on  half  the  farms  in  town,  and  carried  on  a 
large  farm  himself.  Sometimes,  when  a  sudden  death 
brought  forcibly  to  his  mind  the  uncertain  tenure  of  life, 
he  became  uncomfortable  with  the  thought  that  his  af 
fairs  were  so  extended  and  so  complicated,  that  no  one 
but  himself  could  ever  settle  them  safely  and  advan 
tageously.  At  the  close  of  the  day  on  which  he  held 
his  interview  with  Arthur  Blague,  and  that  young  man 
determined  to  enter  the  mill  at  Hucklebury  Run,  he 
drank  his  tea,  and  taking  a  newspaper  in  his  hand,  sub 
sided  into  a  brown  study. 

The  occasion  was  the  sudden  revolution  that  had 
taken  place  in  Arthur's  plans  of  life  in  consequence  of 
his  father's  death.  Would  his  own  little  boy  ever  be 
brought  to  such  a  trial  ?  He  must  not  be.  He  would 
set  apart  now,  while  it  wras  possible,  a  sum  that  should 
be  sacredly  kept  from  all  danger  of  loss,  so  that,  in  any 
contingency,  little  Fred  should  not  miss  his  education. 

Having  fully  determined   upon  this,  and  arranged 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  75 

the  plan  by  which  the  end  should  be  effected,  he  called 
Fred  to  him,  and  took  him  upon  his  knee.  Aunt  Cath 
arine  was  washing  the  silver,  sitting  high  and  trim  in 
her  tea-chair,  and  Fanny  sat  near  the  window  reading. 

"  I  wonder  what  we  shall  make  of  tjris  little  boy," 
said  the  doctor,  with  one  big  arm  around-  him,  and  the 
other  fondling  roughly  his  white  little  hand. 

"  Oh !  I  know  what  I'm  going  to  be,"  said  Fred,  with 
a  very  wise  and  positive  look,  and  a  tone  that  indicated 
that  he  had  never  yet  divulged  his  convictions  to  any 
body. 

"  Tell  us  all  about  it,  then,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Oh  !  I  know — I  know.  You  can't  guess,"  responded 
the  boy,  with  a  smack  of  the  lips  that  showed  it  must 
bo  something  very  delightful  indeed. 

"  I  guess,"  said  the  doctor  very  thoughtfully,  "  that 
you're  going  to  be  a  great  lawyer." 

"  No : "  and  the  boy  looked  wise,  and  smacked  his 
lips  again,  and  said  it  was  "  something  better'n  that." 

"  A  minister,"  suggested  Aunt  Catharine. 

"  Something  better'n  that."  (A  shake  of  the  head, 
and  a  wise  look  out  of  the  window.) 

"  A  doctor,"  Fanny  guessed. 

"  I  hope  it's  better'n  that,"  said  the  disgusted  young 
gentleman' — "  nasty  old  pills." 

"  Tut— tut,  Freddy  !  Your  father  is  a  doctor,"  said 
Dr.  Gilbert  with  mock  severity. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  a  good  plan  to 
have  two  Dr.  Gilberts  ;  do  you,  papa  1 " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  the  people  would  be  always  making  mis 
takes,  and  getting  the  wrong  one." 


76 

The  doctor  joined  Aunt  Catharine  and  Fanny  in  a 
laugh  over  Fred's  ingenuity,  and  then  said  :  "  Now  I  can 
guess  what  my  little  boy  is  going  to  be.  He's  going 
to  be  a  great  scholar  first ;  and  then,  after  a  while,  he 
is  going  to  be,  a  great  man,  and  go  to  Congress,  and 
make  splendid  speeches,  and  then  perhaps  he'll  be  Presi 
dent  of  the  United  States.  That's  it,  isn't  it  1 " 

The  boy  wras  not  to  be  won  from  his  first 'secret  choice 
by  any  eloquent  description  of  the  glory  of  scholarship,  or 
the  grandeur  of  political  elevation,  and  so  made  his  old 
reply,  that  it  was  something  "  better'n  that."  Then  all 
gave  it  up,  and  declared  they  could  not  guess  at  all. 
He  must  tell  them,  or  they  should  never  know. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  a  cracker-peddler,"  said  Fred,  in  a 
tone  of  triumph. 

"  A  cracker-peddler ! "  exclaimed  the  astonished  father. 
"  Dr.  Gilbert's  little  son  a  cracker-peddler  ?  What 
could  put  such  nonsense  into  your  foolish  little  head  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I'm  going  to  be  a  cracker-peddler,"  persisted 
the  boy.  "  I'm  going  to  have  two  splendid  horses  with 
long  tails,  and  a  cart  painted  red,  and  I'm  going  to  stop 
at  the  tavern,  and  have  all  the  baker's  gingerbread  I 
want  to  eat,  and  give  Aunt  Catharine  and  Fanny  all 
they  want  to  eat ;  and  I'm  going  to  have  a  beautiful  whip 
with  my  name  worked  into  the  handle,  and  a  spotted 
dog  with  a  brass  collar  on  his  neck,  to  run  under  the 
cart ;  and  fur  gloves,  and  a  shiny  cap,  and —  " 

Here  the  little  boy  was  interrupted  by  such  a  hearty 
and  long-continued  laugh  from  his  three  fond  listeners, 
that  he  could  proceed  no  further.  As  he  looked  with 
surprise  upon  the  different  members  of  the  group,  his 
sensitive  nature  took  umbrage  at  the  inexplicable  mer- 


AN    AMERICAN    STOEY.  77 

riment,  and  he  turned  his  face  to  his  father's  breast,  and 
burst  into  a  fit  of  violent  weeping.  It  took  many  words 
of  tender  assurance  from  all  the  offending  parties  to  re 
store  the  child's  composure,  and  when,  at  last,  the  smiles 
shone  out  through  the  tears,  Dr.  Gilbert  was  ready  to 
tell  him — a  baby  in  years  and  thought — what  he  pro 
posed  to  do  with  him. 

"  I  wish  to  have  my  boy,"  said  Dr.  Gilbert,  with  a 
new  tenderness  which  the  child's  tears  had  engendered, 
"  be  the  best  little  scholar  in  Crampton.  He  must  study 
very  hard,  and  improve  all  his  time,  and  learn  just  as 
fast  as  he  can.  By  and  by,  when  he  gets  a  little  older, 
and  begins  to  fit  for  college,  we  shall  have  him  recite  to 
Mr.  Wilton,  and  Mr.  Wilton  will  teach  him  Latin  and 
Greek,  and  a  great  many  things  that  he  doesn't  know 
any  thing  about  now  ;  and  then,  after  a  while,  he  will 
go  away  to  college,  and  be  a  grand  young  man,  and 
study  very  hard,  and  be  the  best  scholar  in  his  class ; 
and  when  he  has  been  there  four  years,  he  will  graduate, 
and  deliver  the  valedictory  address,  and  his  papa  will 
be  on  the  platform  to  hear  him,  and  perhaps  Aunt 
Catharine  and  Sister  Fanny  will  be  there  too.  Won't 
that  be  splendid,  now  ?  Won't  that  be  a  great  deal 
better  than  to  be  a  cracker-peddler  ?  " 

The  boy  was  sober  and  thoughtful  for  a  few  min 
utes,  and  then  inquired :  "  Shall  I  be  in  the  college  alone  ? 
Will  nobody  that  I  know  be  there  with  me  1  Won't 
Arthur  Blague  be  there  1 " 

"  Arthur  Blague  will  be  too  old  then,  my  son,"  said 
the  doctor.  "  Besides,  poor  Arthur  Blague  can't  go  to 
college  at  all.  He  has  lost  his  father,  and  has  not  money 
enough.  Poor  Arthur  is  going  to  work  down  at  Huckle- 


78 

bury  Run,  to  get  money  to  support  his  mother  and  little 
Jamie." 

"  Why,  father  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Fanny  Gilbert. 

The  doctor  looked  up,  struck  by  the  peculiar  tone  of 
surprise  and  pain  that  characterized  his  daughter's  ex 
clamation.  Fanny  blushed,  then  she  grew  pale,  and 
trembled  in  every  fibre  of  her  frame. 

Aunt  Catharine's  eyes  flashed  fire.  "  I  think  it's  a 
sin  and  a  shame,"  said  Aunt  Catharine,  "  that  the  noblest 
young  man  in  Crampton  should  be  allowed  to  waste  his 
life  in  a  factory  under  such  a  man  as  old  Ruggles,  when 
there  are  so  many  here  who  are  able  to  help  him." 

"  He  wouldn't  accept  help,  if  it  were  offered  to  him," 
said  the  doctor  drily. 

"  Then  I'd  make  him,"  said  Aunt  Catharine  decid 
edly. 

"  You'd  work  miracles,  doubtless,"  responded  Dr. 
Gilbert ;  and  then,  the  conversation  promising  to  lapse 
into  an  uncongenial  channel,  he  put  down  his  little  boy, 
rose  from  his  chair,  and  left  the  room. 

"  I  think  it's  the  most  shameful  thing  I  ever  knew 
your  father  to  consent  to,"  continued  Aunt  Catharine, 
addressing  herself  to  Fanny. 

Fanny  would  not  trust  herself  to  speak ;  so,  to 
avoid  conversation,  she  left  Fred  with  his  aunt,  and  as 
cended  to  her  chamber ;  and  now  that  we  have  the 
young  woman  alone  and  cornered,  we  will  talk  about 
her. 

It  has  already  appeared  in  these  pages  that  she  was 
tall  and  queenly  in  her  carriage,  that  she  was  ambitious, 
that  she  had  been  crowded  into  early  development,  that 
she  had  been  moved  by  public  praise,  that  she  had 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  79 

dreamed  of  a  public  career.  Whatever  there  was  of  the 
strong  and  masculine  in  her  nature,  had,  under  her 
father's  vigorous  policy,  been  brought  into  prominence  ; 
yet  there  was  another  side  to  both  her  nature  and  her 
character.  If  she  had  a  masculine  head,  she  had  a  fem 
inine  heart.  If  she  felt  inspired  by  a  man's  ambition, 
she  was  informed  by  a  woman's  sensibility.  If,  in  one 
phase  of  her  character  and  constitution,  she  exhibited 
the  power  to  organize  and  execute,  in  what  the  world 
would  style  a  manly  way,  in  another  phase  she  betrayed 
the  possession  of  rare  susceptibility  to  the  most  delicate 
emotions,  and  the  sweetest  affections  and  passions.  The 
question  as  to  Miss  Gilbert's  life  was,  then,  simply  a 
question  as  to  which  side  of  her  nature  should  obtain 
and  retain  the  predominance.  In  a  woman  of  positive 
qualities  like  hers,  this  contrariety  must  inevitably  be 
the  basis  of  many  struggles,  and,  in  a  world  of  shifting 
circumstances  and  various  influences,  she  would  have  diffi 
culty  in  achieving  a  satisfactory  adjustment  of  herself. 

When  Fanny  Gilbert  entered  her  chamber,  she 
closed  the  door  and  locked  it.  Then  she  went  to  her 
mirror  to  see  what  and  how  much  her  face  had  be 
trayed.  The  mirror  gave  her  no  answer.  It  only 
showed  her  a  face  in  which  the  color  went  and  came, 
and  went  and  came  again,  and  a  pair  of  eyes  that  would 
have  been  blue  had  they  not  been  gray,  or  gray  had 
they  not  been  blue.  The  double  nature  discovered  it 
self  hardly  less  in  her  physical  than  in  her  mental  char 
acteristics. 

Fanny  Gilbert  did  not  love  Arthur  Blague.  So  far 
as  she  knew,  he  did  not  love  her.  They  had,  as  neigh 
bors,  as  early  playmates,  and,  at  one  time,  as  school- 


80 

mates,  been  much  associated.  Her  father  and  Arthur's 
father  had  been  excellent  friends.  Her  mother  and  Ar 
thur's  mother  had  been  intimately  neighborly.  But, 
though  she  had  never  loved  him,  she  admired  him  ;  and 
as  he  was  the  superior  of  any  young  man  of  her  ac 
quaintance,  in  manly  beauty  and  all  manly  qualities,  it 
is  not  strange  that,  quite  unconsciously,  her  life's  possi 
bilities  had  yoked  themselves  with  his  life's  possibilities. 
One  thing  was  certain  :  her  beau  ideal — and  by  this  is 
meant,  of  course,  her  ideal  beau — had  marvellously  re 
sembled  Arthur  Blague ;  and  when  that  beau  ideal 
stepped  down  from  its  height  of  splendid  possibilities, 
into  actualities  of  life  that  were  not  only  prosy  but  re 
pulsive,  she  was  sadly  shocked. 

"  Humph  !  "  (a  fine  nasal  ejaculation  of  impatient 
contempt,  accompanied  by  a  decided  elevation  of  the 
organ  used  on  the  occasion.)  "  What  do  I  care  for  Ar 
thur  Blague  ?  "  followed  the  ejaculation ;  and  her  eyes, 
in  which  the  gray  and  blue  were  struggling  for  the  mas 
tery,  flashed  proudly  in  the  mirror. 

Certainly  !  Of  course  !  What  did  she  care  for  Ar 
thur  Blague  ?  Nobody  had  accused  her  of  caring  any 
thing  for  him.  Besides,  how  could  a  girl  be  in  love  who 
was  going  to  have  a  career  ?  Love  meant  marriage  at 
some  time.  Love  meant  subordination  to  somebody. 
So  the  heart,  with  its  petals  all  formed  and  ready  to  be 
kissed  into  bloom,  (had  the  kiss  been  ready,)  was  coolly 
tied  so  that  it  could  not  bloom  at  all.  The  head  passed 
the  string  around  the  opening  bud,  and  half-pitied  the 
restraint  of  its  throbbing  life.  .  The  blue  eyes  looked 
softly  into  the  mirror  no  longer ;  there  was  no  longer 
any  clash  of  colors ;  they  had  changed  to  gray. 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  81 

Miss  Gilbert,  having  discarded  all  thoughts  of  Arthur 
as  a  man  whose  life  sustained  any  relation  to  hers,  pro 
ceeded  to  think  of  him  simply  as  a  human  being  of  the 
masculine  gender,  and  an  indefinite  capacity  for  improve 
ment.  Could  one  like  Arthur  Blague  become  a  slave  ? 
Arthur  was  a  young  man,  and  should  have  a  young 
man's  will.  Would  he — could  he — bend  that  will  to 
the  will  of  a  mean  and  sordid  man,  for  bread  ?  She  was 
nothing  but  a  woman,  and  she  would  not  do  it.  No  : 
she  would  starve  first.  Must  there  not  be  something 
mean  and  weak  in  a  character  that  could  so  adapt  itself 
to  the  shifting  exigencies  and  paltry  economies  of  life  1 
He  had  always  been  gentle  ;  now  he  had  become  quite 
a  girl.  He  had  consented  to  become  the  servant  of  ah 
inferior — to  place  himself  upon  a  level  with  inferiors. 

"  There's  something  wrong  about  Arthur  Blague," 
soliloquized  Miss  Gilbert,  "  or  he  never  could  do  this. 
Never  !  " 

What  a  wise  young  woman  !  How  wise  all  young 
Avomen  are  at  sixteen  ! 

Having  decided  that  Arthur  Blague  was  nothing  to 
her,  and  gone  still  further,  and  decided  that  there  was  a 
fatal  defect  in  the  young  man  somewhere,  Miss  Gilbert 
sat  down  in  calm  self-complacency,  and  commenced  to 
read  some  loose  leaves  of  manuscript.  They  were  not 
old  letters  ;  they  were  not  new  letters.  They  were  not 
even  school-girl  compositions.  They  were  something  of 
much  more  interest  and  importance.  Fanny  read  page 
after  page  while  the  daylight  lasted,  and  then  lighted 
her  lamp,  and  read  on  until  she  had  completed  them  all. 

When  she  had  finished  them,  she  pushed  them  from 
her  with  a  sigh,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands. 


82 

subsided  into  deep  thought  and  a  deep  chair  at  the  same 
moment.  While  she  is  thinking,  a  few  words  about 
the  manuscript.  Perhaps  a  marked  passage  in  a  coun 
try  newspaper  which  lies  on  the  table  before  the  young 
woman,  will  the  most  readily  introduce  us  to  the  char 
acter  of  these  interesting  pages,  in  Fanny's  own  hand 
writing  : 

"  We  trust  that  we  shall  be  deemed  guilty  of  no  in 
delicate  breach  of  confidence,  in  giving  publicity  to  a 
statement  that  by  some  means  has  found  its  way  out 
of  the  private  circle  to  which  it  was  originally  com 
municated,  to  the  effect  that  a  young  lady,  not  a  hun 
dred  miles  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Crampton — 
the  highly  accomplished  daughter  of  a  distinguished 
physician — is  now  busily  engaged  upon  a  work  of  fic 
tion.  The  fair  authoress,  we  are  assured,  has  not  yet 
exhausted  the  delicious  term  of  '  sweet  sixteen,'  though 
she  has  already,  in  another  field  of  effort,  demonstrated 
the  possession  of  those  rare  gifts  and  aptitudes  which 
will  enable  her  to  succeed  abundantly  in  the  arduous 
career  which  she  has  chosen.  We  shall  anticipate  the 
essay  of  this  new  candidate  fur  public  honors  with  un 
usual  interest.  In  the  mean  time,  we  beg  her  pardon, 
and  that  of  her  friends,  if  this  early  announcement  of  her 
intentions  shall  be  deemed  premature  or  unwarranted." 

So  this  manuscript  was  Fanny's  new  "  work  of  fic 
tion,"  and  so  Fanny  had  chosen  a  literary  career.  How 
the  fact  that  she  was  engaged  in  writing  ever  found  its 
way  into  the  Littleton  Examiner,  she  was  utterly  at  a 
loss  to  imagine.  It  was  true  that  she  had  spoken  of  the 
matter  to  an  intimate  friend — a  young  woman,  who 
knew  another  young  woman  who  was  very  well  ac- 


AN   AMERICAN    STOEY.  83 

quainted  with  Rev.  J.  Dcsilver  Newman,  who,  of  course, 
knew  his  neighbor,  the  editor  of  the  "  Examiner,"  and 
who,  in  fact,  had  the  credit  of  writing  the  articles  for 
that  paper ;  but  it  was  hardly  possible  that  the  news 
should  have  got  out  in  that  way.  One  thing  was  cer 
tain  :  she  had  been  indiscreet.  She  should  have  told 
no  one,  and  then  no  one  would  have  known  any  thing 
about  it.  She  should  have  written  all  the  time  with  her 
gray  eyes ;  for  the  blue  eyes  sought  for  sympathy  and 
communion.  She  had  told  one  friend,  because  the 
woman  in  her  demanded  that  she  should  tell  one  friend. 
Was  the  public  announcement  distasteful  to  her1? 
Fanny  Gilbert  with  blue  eyes  shrank  from  it  offended  ; 
but  afterward,  when  Fanny  Gilbert  with  gray  eyes  be 
gan  to  think  about  it,  she  gloried  in  it.  She  would  be 
remarked  upon,  and  pointed  out  as  the  young  woman 
who  was  writing  a  novel.  Admiring  and  wondering 
eyes  would  be  upon  her,  whenever  she  walked  through 
the  street,  or  appeared  in  a  public  assembly.  A  ro 
mantic  personal  interest  would  attach  to  her.  Ah  !  yes. 
Gray-eyed  Fanny  Gilbert  was  pleased  in  spite  of  her 
self. 

But  the  work  of  writing  was  a  very  weary  and  a 
very  perplexing  work.  Sometimes  she  could  not  make 
her  characters  stand  up  to  be  written  about.  Her  life 
had  not  been  sufficiently  varied  to  afford  her  a  compe 
tent  range  of  incidents.  With  the  consciousness  of  the 
possession  of  sufficient  power  for  her  work,  she  had  also 
the  consciousness  of  poverty  of  materials.  It  was  of 
this  poverty  that  she  was  thinking  so  very  deeply  in  her 
very  deep  chair. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  she  was  also  vexed  with 


84:  MISS  GILBEET'S  CAKEER: 

the  thought  that  the  hero  of  her  story  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  Arthur  Blague,  and  that,  although  that 
young  man  had  ceased  to  be  a  hero  in  her  eyes,  she 
could  not  change  him  for  any  other  young  man  she 
knew.  There  were  other  uncomfortable  thoughts  that 
came  to  her  with  this.  She  had  never  communicated 
her  designs  to  her  father,  and  she  was  not  certain  that 
he  would  regard  them  with  favor. 

Her  reverie,  which  had  been  somewhat  protracted, 
was  disturbed  at  last  by  the  sound  of  feet  upon  the 
stairs,  and  then'  by  a  strong  rap  at  her  door.  She  rose 
hurriedly,  thrust  her  manuscript  into  the  desk,  and  then 
admitted  her  father  and  little  Fred. 

"  Fred  wishes  you  to  put  him  to  bed,"  said  her 
father,  "  and  Catharine  says  you  have  received  a  late 
Littleton  paper,"  he  added.  "  Ah  !  here  it  is  ; "  and 
the  doctor  laid  his  hand  upon  it. 

Fanny  put  out  both  her  hands  in  pantomimic  dep 
recation. 

"  You  can  have  it  again,  of  course,"  said  the  doctor ; 
"  I  only  wish  to  look  at  the  probate  notices :  "  saying 
which,  he  bade  Fred  "  good  night,"  and  walked  down 
stairs. 

There  were  some  very  stupid  and  very  tremulous 
fingers  engaged  that  night  in  undressing  the  little  boy, 
and  when  he  said  "  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven"  to 
her,  she  was  thinking  only  of  her  father  who  was  down 
stairs  reading  "  probate  notices,"  in  the  Littleton  Ex 
aminer.  The  sweet  little  "  Amen  "  was  just  breathed 
when  she  heard  her  father's  steps  in  the  hall,  and  his 
voice  calling  "  Fanny,"  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

Fanny  looked  in  the  glass  again,  and   then  went 


AN    AMERICAN    STOKY.  85 

slowly  down  stairs.  Every  part  of  her  varied  nature 
was  awake  and  on  the  alert.  A  gentle,  sympathetic 
word  would  win  her  into  tenderness  and  tractableness  ; 
while  harsh  dealing  would  arouse  her  to  opposition  the 
most  positive.  She  \vould  like,  of  all  things  the  most, 
to  have  her  father  talk  encouragingly  and  sympatheti 
cally  of  her  new  enterprise.  The  woman  and  the 
daughter  were  delicately  alive  to  any  gentle  word  or 
kind  counsel  that  the  strong  man  and  the  father  might 
utter ;  but  the  ambitious  aspirant  for  public  applause 
was  sensitive  in  an  equal  degree,  and,  firmly  throned, 
was  prepared  imperiously  to  defend  her  prerogatives 
and  pleasures. 

Miss  Gilbert  entered  the  drawing-room  with  any 
thing  but  the  air  of  a  child  or  a  culprit — not  defiantly, 
but  as  if  she  were  prepared  for  any  event,  and  rather 
expected  the  event  to  be  unpleasant. 

"  Have  you  seen  that  paragraph  ? "  inquired  the  doc 
tor  excitedly,  extending  the  copy  of  the  Littleton  Ex 
aminer  to  Fanny,  with  his  thumb  half-covering  the  fa 
miliar  lines. 

"  I  have,  sir,"  replied  Fanny,  coolly. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ? "  The  doctor's  eyes  flashed, 
and  he  spoke  loudly  and  harshly. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  You  don't  know,  eh  ?     I  know." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  tell  me,  father." 

"  Fanny,  Fanny,  this  will  not  do.  You  must  not 
speak  to  me  with  such  a  look  and  tone.  You  know 
very  well  that  this  paragraph  can  refer  only  to  you. 
Have  you  ever  given  authority  to  any  one  to  publish 
such  a  paragraph  as  that  ? " 


86 

"  I  certainly  never  have,"  Fanny  replied,  very  de 
cidedly. 

"  Have  you  ever,"  pursued  her  father,  "  said  to  any 
one  any  thing  from  which  this  impertinent  paragraph 
could  be  made  1 " 

"  I  suppose  I  have,  to  an  intimate  friend." 

"  Were  you  hoaxing  her,  or  telling  her  the  truth  ?  " 

"  I  told  her  the  truth." 

"  To  an  intimate  friend,  eh  ?  To  an  intimate  friend, 
and  not  to  me,  eh  ?  Why  not  to  me  1 " 

"  Because  I  feared  that  you  would  not  favor  my 
project." 

"  You  are  very  frank,  upon  my  word.  So  far  as 
you  could  guess  what  my  will  would  be,  you  would  dis 
obey  it.  What  have  you  been  writing "?  " 

Miss  Gilbert  was  angry.  She  did  not  look  into  her 
father's  face,  but  studied  the  paper  on  the  wall. 

"  Fanny,  tell  me  what  you  have  been  wrriting." 

Still  looking  at  the  wall,  Fanny  replied,  "  I  have 
begun  to  write  a  novel,  and  only  begun.  I  have  not 
been  without  the  hope  that  it  would  please  my 
father — that  it  would  be  a  happy  surprise  to  him.  I 
have  not  been — I  have  never  been — a  disobedient  daugh 
ter.  I  have  followed  your  wishes  all  my  life,  and  no 
being  in  the  w^orld  has  had  so  much  to  do  in  bringing 
me  to  the  undertaking  of  this  enterprise  as  you  have.  I 
am  ambitious,  because  you  have  fostered  ambition  in 
me.  I  have  been  kept  before  the  public  in  one  wray  and 
another  ever  since  I  can  remember.  I  have  been  taught 
to  regard  public  applause  as  a  very  pleasant  and 
precious  thing.  To  excel  in  study,  to  shine  in  examina 
tions  and  public  exhibitions,  to  win  praise  for  wonderful 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  87 

achievements,  has  been  the  aim  of  my  life  for  years,  and 
to  this  you  have  always  pushed  me.  You  have  heard 
me  publicly  praised  here,  in  our  own  church,  and  you 
were  pleased.  I  feel  now  that  I  can  never  be  content 
with  the  common  lot  of  woman,  and  I  declare  that  I 
will  not  accept  it.  I  will  not  live  a  humdrum,  insig 
nificant  life  of  subordination  to  the  wills  and  lives  of 
others,  save  in  my  own  way.  I  will  have  a  career." 

Dr.  Gilbert  was  utterly  astonished.  He  had  watched 
his  daughter  with  painful  interest  as  she  revealed  her 
self  to  him  in  her  first  open  attempt  to  cut  loose  from 
his  will  and  to  assert  herself,  and  when  she  closed,  he 
could  only  echo  her  closing  words — "  a  career  !  "  A 
woman  with  "  a  career  "  was  something  he  could  not 
comprehend  at  all ;  or,  if  he  comprehended  it,  he  did 
not  comprehend  the  motives  of  his  daughter's  ambition. 
That  he  had  ever  contributed  to  this  ambition  he  did 
not  admit  for  a  moment ;  but  he  was  puzzled  as  to 
what  course  to  pursue.  He  saw  that  his  daughter 
might  be  easily  exasperated ;  so  the  bright  thought 
occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  this  desire  for  a  career 
might  possibly  be  a  sort  of  mental  small-pox  or  measles, 
which  must  run  its  course,  and  would  then  leave  her 
free  from  the  liability  to  a  recurrence  of  the  disease. 

"  Then  you  have  determined  to  write. this  novel  ?  " 
said  Dr.  Gilbert. 

"  It  would  be  the  saddest  disappointment  of  my  life 
to  be  obliged  to  relinquish  it." 

"  And  to  publish  it  1 " 

"  I  have  no  motive  for  writing  a  book  that  is  not  to 
be  published." 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  the  doctor,  "  but  you  would 
C 


88  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER  : 

do  it  for  your  own  improvement.  It  would  be  a  very 
fine  diversion,  you  know,  in  case  you  take  up  German 
and  Hebrew,  and  the  higher  mathematics,  this  winter." 

';  Must  I  forever  be  doing  something  for  my  own 
improvement  ?  Must  I  bo  forever  studying  ?  I  am  tired 
of  always  taking  in  ;  I  wish  to  do  something,  and  to  be 
recognized  as  a — as  a — power  in  the  world."  Fanny 
said  this  very  fervently,  but  the  last  words  sounded 
very  large,  and  she  knew  they  seemed  ridiculous  to  her 
father,  who  smiled,  almost  derisively,  as  the  hot  blood 
mounted  to  her  temples. 

The  half-amused,  half-pitying  contempt  which  Fanny 
saw  in  her  father's  face  roused  her  anger.  She  rose 
from  her  chair  impetuously,  and  stamping  one  foot 
upon  the  floor,  exclaimed :  "  I  wish  to  God  I  were  a 
man  !  I  think  it  a  curse  to  be  a  woman." 

"  Why,  Fanny  !  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Gilbert,  greatly 
shocked. 

"I  do  think  it  a  curse  to  be  a  woman.  I  never 
knew  a  woman  who  was  not  a  slave  or  a  nonentity,  nor 
a  man  who  did  not  wish  to  make  her  one  or  the  other. 
A  woman  has  no  freedom,  and  no  choice  of  life.  She 
can  take  no  position,  and  have  no  power,  without  be 
coming  a  scoffing  and  a  by-word.  You  have  been  talk 
ing  to  Fred  ^ver  since  he  was  in  the  cradle  about  a 
career ;  you  have  placed  before  him  the  most  exciting 
motives  to  effort,  but  you  have  never  dreamed  of  my 
being  any  thing  more  than  Dr.  Gilbert's  very  clever 
daughter ;  or  a  tributary  to  some  selfish  man's  happi 
ness  and  respectability.  I  say  that  I  will  not  accept 
this  lot,  and  that  I  do  not  believe  my  Maker  ever  in 
tended  I  should  accept  it." 


AN    AMERICAN    STOKY.  89 

All  this  Miss  Gilbert  uttered  vehemently,  and  en 
forced  with  sundry  emphatic  gestures,  and  then  she 
turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Fanny,  sit  down  ! "     The  doctor's  will  was  rising. 

"  I  can  listen  without  sitting,  sir  ;  but  I  should  like 
to  retire." 

"  Sit  down,  I  say." 

Fanny  altered  the  position  of  her  chair  very  de 
liberately,  placed  herself  before  it  very  slowly,  and  set 
tled  into  her  seat  very  proudly  indeed. 

"  Fanny  Gilbert,  never  speak  such  words  to  me 
again,  while  you  live.  I  will  not  allow  it ;  I  will  not 
permit  you  to  insult  me,  and  disgrace  yourself,  by  such 
language.  I  am  astonished.  I  am  confounded.  I  am 
— ah — who  has  been  putting  such  mischievous,  such 
blasphemous  notions  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  Women  never  have  any  notions,  except  such  as 
are  put  into  their  heads,  I  suppose,  of  course." 

"  Do  you  use  this  tone  of  irony  to  me  1  Hear  what 
I  have  to  say,  and  do  not  speak  to  me — do  not  speak  to 
me  again  to-night.  You  have  begun  what  you  call  a 
career,  and  have  begun  it  just  where  such  an  inex 
perienced  girl  as  you  would  naturally  begin  it.  I  un 
derstand  your  case,  I  think,  and  I  shall  not  interfere 
with  your  purpose.  Nay,  it  is  my  will  tfiat  you  go  on 
and  satisfy  yourself — that  you  prove  the  utter  hollow- 
ness  of  your  notions.  I  will  go  further  than  this.  If, 
when  you  have  finished  your  book,  you  will  submit  it 
to  Mr.  Wilton,  and  he  decides  that  it  will  not  abso 
lutely  disgrace  you,  I  will  find  a  publisher  for  it.  But 
by  all  means  be  as  diligent  as  you  can  be  with  your  work. 
Do  with  your  might  what  your  hands  have  undertaken 


90 

to  do,  and  do  not  leave  it  until  it  shall  be  finished. 
You  can  go." 

Browbeaten,  but  not  subdued,  Miss  Gilbert  rose 
and  sailed  out  of  the  room.  Her  heart  was  in  a  tumult. 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Her  head  ached  almost 
to  bursting  with  the  pressure  of  rebellious  blood.  The 
moment  she  left  the  presence  of  the  strong  will  that  had 
roused  her,  the  woman's  want  of  solace  and  sympathy 
swept  through  her  whole  nature.  Meeting  Aunt  Catha 
rine  in  the  upper  hall,  she  cast  herself,  sobbing,  and  soft 
as  a  child,  upon  the  spinster's  bosom,  and  was  led  by 
that  good  woman  into  her  room.  Then  Aunt  Catharine 
sat  down  upon  Fanny's  bed,  and  took  Fanny's  head 
upon  her  shoulder,  and  passed  her  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  sat  in  perfect  silence  with  her  for  half  an 
hour,  while  her  niece  enjoyed  unrestrained  the  "  luxury 
of  grief." 

"  There,  dear,  have  you  got  down  to  where  you  can 
pray  ?  "  inquired  Aunt  Catharine,  putting  off  the  young 
head. 

Fanny  smiled  faintly,  said,  "  Thank  you,  aunt,  it  has 
done  me  so  much  good,"  then  kissed  her  affectionately, 
and  bade  her  "  good  night." 

Fanny's  prayer  was  a  very  broken  and  unsatisfac 
tory  one  that  night,  and  the  doctor's,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
was  hardly  more  consolatory.  A  long  reverie  followed 
the  retirement  of  his  daughter  from  his  presence.  At 
the  close  of  this,  he  took  up  the  copy  of  the  Littleton 
Examiner,  and  re-perused  the  offensive  paragraph.  It 
had  changed  somehow.  It  did  not  seem  so  offensive  as 
it  did  at  first.  Then  he  subsided  into  another  reverie, 
in  which  the  possibilities  of  Fanny's  career  were  fol- 


AN   AMERICAN    STOEY.  91 

lowed  very  far — so  far,  that  Dr.  Gilbert  had  become  a 
very  noted  man,  for  having  a  famous  daughter,  who  had 
contributed  richly  to  the  literature  of  her  country.  He 
began,  before  he  was  conscious  of  it,  to  sympathize  with 
his  daughter's  project.  Many  excellent  women  had 
written  books,  and  why  not  "  the  highly  accomplished 
daughter  of  a  distinguished  physician  "  ? 

Ah  !  if  Fanny  had  possessed  more  tact,  if  her  eyes 
had  been  just  a  shade  bluer,  she  could  have  made  her 
peace  with  her  father  that  night,  and  sapped  the  will  of 
the  strong  man  through  the  weak  point  of  his  character, 
and  made  him  essentially  her  servant. 


92  Mlbrf    GILBERTS    CAliEEIil 


CHAPTEE   VI. 

THE   MISTEESS   OF   HUCEXEBUEY   EUN   AND   HEE   ACCOMPLISHED 
DAUGHTEE. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  accident  at  the  Run,  Arthur 
did  not  retire  to  bed  until  late,  anxious  to  learn  from 
Dr.  Gilbert  the  fate  of  the  proprietor.  He  called  at 
the  house  of  the  doctor  several  times,  but  that  gentle 
man  had  not  returned.  He  knew  that  the  casualty  was 
a  serious  one,  and  one  that  would  be  likely  to  have  im 
portant  relations  to  his  future  life.  It  would  inevi 
tably  thwart  all  his  plans,  or  modify,  in  some  un 
looked-for  way,  his  destiny.  His  despondent  mother 
felt  that  it  was  only  a  new  misfortune  added  to  her  al 
ready  extended  list,  and  declared  that  she  had  expected 
something  like  it  from  the  first. 

At  last  Arthur  relinquished  the  expectation  of  see 
ing  the  doctor  that  night,  and  went  to  bed.  The  next 
morning  was  dark  and  rainy.  An  eastern  storm  wras 
raging  when  he  rose,  and  the  walk  was  covered  with 
deciduous  foliage.  Large  trees  that  had  borne  into  the 
night  abundant  wealth  of  mellow  purple  and  scarlet 
and  gold,  greeted  the  gray  light  of  the  morning  in  shiv- 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  93 

ering  and  moaning  nakedness.  The  clouds  sailed  low 
and  fast  upon  an  atmosphere  of  mist,  and  tossed  over 
board  their  burden  in  fitful  and  spiteful  showers.  The 
ground  was  soaked  and  spongy,  and  every  thing,  above 
and  below,  looked  sad  and  forbidding,  as  Arthur  left  his 
door  for  the  scene  of  his  daily  labor. 

He  had  accomplished  possibly  half  of  the  distance 
to  the  mill,  running  rather  than  walking,  when  his  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  wheels ;  and  soon  afterwards  Dr. 
Gilbert  and  his  gig  showed  themselves  through  the 
misty  twilight.  Arthur  hailed  the  doctor,  and  inquired 
for  his  employer. 

"  He  is  at  death's  door,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  with 
the  bare  possibility  of  being  saved.  He  wants,  too, 
such  care  as  only  a  man  can  give  him.  His  family  are 
worse  than  nothing,  and  I  see  no  way  but  for  you  to 
become  his  nurse,  and  take  the  charge  of  him  until  he 
either  dies  or  recovers.  I  have  been  with  him  all  night, 
but  I  cannot  be  with  him  to-day.  Go  directly  to  the 
house,  and  I  will  be  there  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours, 
and  give  you  my  directions." 

Saying  this  to  Arthur,  who  was  so  much  impressed 
by  this  new  turn  of  events  that  he  could  not  reply,  Dr. 
Gilbert  chirruped  to  the  little  black  pony,  who  stood 
uneasily  in  the  storm,  with  his  ears  turned  back  very 
savagely,  and  away  rolled  the  gig  into  the  mist,  leaving 
the  young  man  standing  with  his  face  toward  Crampton. 
A  moment  of  indecision  was  followed  by  the  active  re 
sumption  of  his  way  to  the  Run.  Arriving  at  the  mill, 
he  found  every  thing  in  confusion.  The  early  breakfast 
had  been  eaten,  and  the  operatives  were  assembled  in 
the  mill,  as  if  there  had  been  no  other  resort ;  but  the 


94 

wheel  was  not  in  motion.  Gathered  into  knots  here 
and  there  in  the  different  rooms,  some  of  them  were 
discussing  their  master's  calamity  with  unbecoming 
levity,  and  others,  less  talkative,  were  looking  solemn 
and  apprehensive. 

Why  was  it  that  all  these  men  and  women  regarded 
Arthur  Blague,  as  he  entered  the  mill,  with  an  expecta 
tion  of  help  and  direction  1  He  was  but  a  boy,  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  duties  of  the  establishment ;  but 
they  turned  to  him  just  as  naturally  as  if  he  had  been 
their  master  for  years.  They  were  "  all  alike  down  to 
the  Run."  They  were  all  men  and  women  who  had 
been  governed,  who  had  had  their  wills  crushed  out  of 
them,  who  had  lived  and  moved  only  in  cowardly  de 
pendence.  The  bell  had  controlled  them  like  a  flock  of 
sheep.  Their  employer's  presence  had  been  their  stim 
ulus  to  labor,  and  his  mind  and  will  were  in  them  all. 
As  soon  as  that  mind  and  will  and  presence  were  with 
drawn,  they  were  helpless,  because  they  had  long  since 
ceased  to  govern  and  direct  themselves.  There  was  no 
leader  among  them.  They  had  all  been  conquered 
— "  they  were  all  alike  down  to  the  Run." 

The  moment  Arthur  stepped  into  the  mill,  the  knots 
of  men  and  women  were  dissolved,  and  all  flocked 
around  him.  "  Have  you  heard  from  old  Ruggles  ?  " 
"  Have  you  seen  the  doctor  1 "  "  What  does  the  doc 
tor  think  ?  "  were  questions  which  poured  in  upon  him 
from  every  side.  Arthur  told  them  wrhat  the  doctor 
had  said,  and  asked  them  what  they  were  going  to  do. 
Nobody  knew;  nobody  assumed  to  speak  for  the  others. 
All  were  dumb. 

Arthur  waited  a  moment,  looking  from  one  to  an- 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  95 

other  ;  when  Cheek,  standing  on  a  bale  of  cloth,  shouted  : 
"  This  meeting  will  please  to  come  to  order." 

As  the  meeting  happened  to  be  in  a  very  perfect 
state  of  order  at  the  instant,  it  of  course  immediately 
went  into  the  disorder  of  unnecessary  laughter. 

"  I  motion,"  said  Cheek,  assuming  all  the  active 
functions  of ,  a  deliberative  assembly,  "  that  Arthur 
Blague,  Esq.,  be  the  boss  of  this  mill  till  somebody 
gets  well,  or  somebody  kicks  the  bucket.  All  who  are 
in  favor  will  say  '  aye.'  " 

The  "aye"  was  very  unanimous,  whatever  may 
have  been  intended  by  it. 

"All  those  opposed  will  shut  their  clam-shells," 
continued  Cheek,  "  and  forever  after  hold  their  peace." 

In  the  midst  of  much  merriment,  Cheek  handed  to 
Arthur,  with  a  profound  bow,  an  old  hat  which  belonged 
to  the  proprietor,  and  then  put  his  own  under  his  arm, 
in  token  of  his  readiness  to  receive  orders. 

Arthur  was  about  to  decline  the  honor  conferred 
upon  him,  and  to  say  that  the  occasion  was  hardly  one 
that  admitted  of  levity,  when  his  eye  detected,  among 
the  girls  of  the  group,  an  earnest  face,  back  from  which 
fell  the  familiar  sun-bonnet.  The  moment  the  woman 
caught  his  eye,  she  beckoned  to  him.  Making  his  way 
through  the  group,  he  followed  her  aside,  and  then  she 
turned  upon  him  her  full  blue  eyes,  and  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Blague,"  said  the  young  woman,  with  a  low, 
firm  voice,  and  with  an  air  of  good  breeding,  "  these 
people  are  in  trouble,  and  do  not  know  what  to  do. 
Advise  them  frankly.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  them  be 
cause  you  are  a  comparative  stranger  to  them.  Tell 


96  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

them  what  to  do,  and  they  will  do  it.  Leave  me,  and 
act  at  once." 

All  this  was  said  rapidly,  and  in  a  tone  that  no  one 
heard  but  he.  The  words  were  those  of  command  ;  the 
voice  was  one  of  respectful  entreaty.  Arthur  turned 
to  the  assembly,  whose  eyes  had  followed  him,  while 
his  mysterious  counsellor  took  her  station  at  her 
looms. 

"  We  do  not  elect  our  master  in  this  mill,"  said  Ar 
thur,  pleasantly.  "  It  is  not  in  accordance  with  the  con 
stitution  of  Hucklebury  Run ;  therefore,  I  beg  leave  to 
decline  the  honor  you  have  conferred  upon  me ;  but 
there  is  one  thing  we  can  all  do." 

"What's  that?  what's  that?"  inquired  a  dozen 
voices. 

"  Each  person  can  do  his  own  work,  and  his  own 
duty,  in  his  own  place,  and  be  his  own  master ;  and  if 
each  one  does  this,  there  will  be  no  trouble,  and  the 
work  will  all  be  done,  and  done  well.  If  Mr.  Ruggles 
recovers,  then  his  business  will  suffer  no  interruption ; 
if  he  dies,  you  will  have  pay  for  your  labor." 

The  question,  so  difficult  to  these  people,  who  had 
lost  the  idea  of  governing  themselves,  was  solved.  He 
had  not  ceased  to  speak,  when  a  strong  hand  raised  the 
gate,  and  the  big  wheel  was  in  motion.  In  five  minutes 
the  mill  was  in  full  operation.  A  sense  of  individual 
responsibility  brought  self-respect,  and  awakened  a  sen 
timent  of  honor.  They  were  happier,  and  more  faithful 
in  heart  and  hand  to  the  interests  of  their  employer, 
than  they  had  been  in  all  the  history  of  their  connection 
with  the  establishment.  Arthur  looked  for  the  girl 
who  had  spoken  to  him.  She  met  his  eye  with  a  smile, 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  97 

bowed  slightly,  as  if  acknowledging  his  service,  and 
turned  to  her  work. 

Half-bewildered  by  the  events  of  the  morning,  in 
which  he  seemed  to  have  played  an  important  part, 
without  comprehending  how  or  why  he  had  done  it,  and 
with  the  strange,  low  voice  of  the  young  woman  still 
lingering  in  his  ears,  he  turned  from  the  mill  to  seek 
the  dwelling  of  his  employer,  in  accordance  with  the 
wishes  of  Dr.  Gilbert. 

Old  Buggies  lived  in  a  little  dwelling  on  a  hill  that 
overlooked  the  mill.  It  was  hardly  superior  in  size  and 
architectural  pretensions  to  the  tenements  occupied  by 
the  men,  among  his  operatives,  who  had  families.  Ar 
thur  rapped  softly  at  the  door,  and  was  admitted  by  a 
woman,  whom  he  recognized  at  once  as  Mrs.  Ruggles. 
She  was  coarse  and  vulgar-looking,  very  fat,  with  large 
hands,  small,  cunning  eyes,  and  floating  cap-strings. 
Every  thing  she  wore  seemed  to  float  back  from  her  an 
terior  aspect,  as  if  she  had  stood  for  a  week  facing  a 
strong  wind.  Her  cap  flew  back  at  the  ears,  and  the 
strings  hung  over  the  shoulders  ;  the  ends  of  her  neck 
erchief  were  parallel  with  her  cap-strings ;  her  skirts 
were  very  scant  before,  and  very  full  behind,  as  if, 
which  was  the  fact,  she  always  moved  very  fast,  and 
created  a  vacuum  in  her  passage,  which  every  light 
article  upon  her  ponderous  person  strove  to  reach 
and  fill. 

She  greeted  Arthur  with  a  very  dolorous  face,  but 
called  him  "  Arthur  "  quite  familiarly,  and  affected  an 
air  of  polite  condescension,  as  she  inquired  if  he  would 
sit  down  and  have  a  cup  of  coffee.  "  We  are  trying, 
Leonora  and  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ruggles,  "  to  take  some- 


thing  to  support  natur',  because,  as  I  tell  Leonora,  it's 
a  duty  to  bear  up  under  the  strokes  of  Providence,  and 
be  able  to  help  them  that  needs  us." 

Mrs.  Ruggles  said  this  as  she  pointed  Arthur  to  a 
chair  at  the  table,  by  the  side  of  Leonora,  and  went  to 
the  cupboard  for  a  plate,  cup,  and  saucer.  Leonora,  the 
daughter,  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  the  young  man's, 
and  he  shook  her  listless,  lifeless  hand  in  silence. 

The  coffee  doesn't  look  very  well  this  morning," 
said  Mrs.  Ruggles,  as  she  poured  out  a  cup  for  Arthur, 
"  but  I  s'pose  it's  more  nourishing  than  as  if  it  was  set 
tled.  I  always  told  father,"  by  which  reverential  term 
the  lady  intended  to  designate  her  husband,  "  that  if 
coffee  was  nourishing  at  all,  the  grounds  was  the  best 
part  of  it.  You  know  how  it  is  with  porridge  1 "  And 
Mrs.  Ruggles  looked  at  Arthur  as  she  handed  him  the 
cup  and  the  suggestive  illustration  together,  as  if  the 
two  articles  were  sufficient  to  floor  the  strongest  preju 
dices. 

"  Will  you  have  another  cup,  dear  7  "  said  Leonora's 
mamma,  to  that  young  woman.  Leonora  did  not  reply, 
save  by  a  contemptuous  twist  of  her  features,  and  a 
shake  of  her  head. 

"  I  don't  think  Leonora  loves  coffee  very  well,"  pur 
sued  Mrs.  Ruggles. 

"  I  love  coffee,  but  I  don't  love  slops,"  responded  the 
young  woman,  pettishly. 

"  Now,  dear,  don't  speak  so,"  said  mamma  depre- 
catingly ;  "  this  is  what  we  get  for  sending  you  to  board 
ing-school.  Oh  !  girls  are  brought  up  so  different  from 
what  they  was  when  I  was  young.  Now,  dear,  you 
know  that  we  never  settle  our  coffee  with  eggs  after 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  99 

they  get  to  be  over  a  shilling  a  dozen.  Father  and  me 
has  always  been  obliged  to  be  equinomical,  and  to  look 
after  odds  and  ends,  and  if  you  have  got  extravagant 
notions  into  your  head,  you  didn't  git  them  to  home. 
You  know  it,  dear,  jest  as  well  as  I  do." 

Leonora  breathed  a  little  gust  of  irritation  through 
her  nostrils,  as  if  a  fly  were  upon  her  lip. 

Arthur  was  sufficiently  amused  with  the  mother,  but 
he  was  honestly  concerned  for  the  father,  and  he  won 
dered  how  the  face  he  met  at  the  door  could  so  sud 
denly  lose  its  longitude.  He  ventured  to  change  the 
direction  of  the  conversation  by  inquiring  into  Mr.  Rug- 
gles'  condition. 

The  fat  face  gathered  incalculable  solemnity  on  the 
instant.  "  Father  has  took  sights  of  laudlum — sights  of 
laudlum  !  "  Mrs.  Buggies  shook  her  head,  as  if  the 
"  laudlum  "  were  the  big  end  of  the  calamity. 

"  I  hope  it  has  quieted  him,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Yes,  he's  asleep  now,  and  Joslyn  is  setting  up  with 
him.  Joslyn  is  a  very  still  man,  you  know,  for  one 
that's  so  heavy  as  he  is.  I  s'pose  he's  got  used  to  go 
ing  tiptoe  by  always  having  a  baby  to  home.  It  would 
be  an  awful  stroke  to  Joslyn  if  father  should  be  took 
away."  Mrs.  Buggies'  own  woe  seemed  to  be  entirely 
submerged  by  her  sympathy  for  Joslyn. 

"  But  we  all  hope  he  will  live,"  said  Arthur  cor 
dially,  "  and  I  know  Dr.  Gilbert  hasn't  given  him  up." 

"  Oh  !  such  a  sight — such  a  sight !  "  exclaimed  the 
wife,  as  the  sound  of  the  doctor's  name  recalled  the 
painful  scenes  of  the  night,  "  every  rag  of  clothes  torn 
off  of  him,  and  his  leg  broke,  and  his  body  no  better 
than  so  much  jelly  !  It's  the  greatest  wonder  that  he's 


100 

alive  now.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  never  should  live 
through  it ;  and  it  wouldn't  be  strange  if  he  should  be 
took  away,  after  all.  But  it  isn't  our  doings,  and  we 
must  be  resigned  to  the  stroke,  if  it  comes." 

The  List  portion  of  these  remarks  was  accompanied 
by  appropriate  sighs,  but  it  somehow  seemed  to  Arthur 
as  if  resignation  would  not  be  such  a  difficult  duty, 
after  all. 

The  small,  cunning  eyes  of  the  woman  read  as  much 
as  this  in  the  young  man's  face,  and  she  continued  :  "  It's 
a  duty  to  be  thankful  for  our  comforts,  whatever  comes. 
If  he  should  be  took  away,  I  shouldn't  be  like  them 
that  have  no  hope." 

"  Is  Mr.  Ruggles  a  religious  man  ?  "  inquired  Ar 
thur. 

"  It  depends  on  what  people  calls  religion,"  replied 
Mrs.  Ruggles.  "  Some  thinks  it's  one  thing,  and  some 
thinks  it's  another.  Some  is  professors,  you  know,  and 
some  is  possessors.  Father  and  me  never  made  so 
much  fuss  about  our  religion  as  some  folks  do.  He  al 
ways  give  something  for  supporting  the  Gospil.  I've 
seen  him  give  twenty-five  dollars  to  once,  and  he  was 
forever  taking  down  a  codfish  or  something  to  Mr.  Wil 
ton.  Father  and  me  has  always  been  equinomical,  but 
we  never  stole  the  Gospil,  never.  Then  father  has  al 
ways  provided  for  his  own  family,  which  is  more  re 
ligion  than  some  folks  have.  Folks  that  don't  provide 
for  their  own  families  are  infidels,  the  Bible  says." 

During  all  this  conversation,  Leonora  had  sat  in 
perfect  silence,  expressing  only  by  her  lazy  features  the 
contempt  she  felt  for  her  mother,  and  for  the  meal  be 
fore  her.  Her  eyes  gave  no  evidence  of  tears,  past  or 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  101 

present.  She  was  annoyed,  to  be  sure,  but  she  was  al 
ways  annoyed.  With  a  father  and  a  mother  wholly 
absorbed  by  worldliness,  she  had  grown  up  in  indolence 
— the  insipid,  ungrateful  recipient  of  every  loving  min 
istry  of  which  her  parents  were  capable.  Arthur  turned 
his  eyes  upon  her  in  astonishment,  wondering  that  the 
nature  of  any  woman  could  be  so  apathetic. 

Mrs.  Ruggles  noticed  Arthur's  observation  of  her 
daughter,  and  continued  :  "  As  I  was  saying,  father  has 
looked  out  for  his  own  family,  and  Leonora  is  provided 
for.  There  isn't  any  girl  in  Crampton  that  is  any  bet 
ter  edicated  than  she  is,  and  there  isn't  one  that  will 
have  such  a  setting-out.  Of  course,  she  will  have  all 
we  have  got,  at  last,  when  we  are  both  took  away,  but 
I  mean  she  shall  always  hold  it  in  her  own  right.  I 
don't  think  it's  right  for  folks  to  tug  and  tug  all  their 
lives  to  get  money  together  to  spoil  their  children's 
husbands  with.  When  I  married  father — you  know  I 
married  him  out  of  the  mill — I  had  my  own  bank  stock 
that  I  had  earned  myself,  and  I've  always  held  it  in  my 
own  right.  I  think  it's  such  a  comfort  for  a  woman  to 
have  bank  stock,  if  her  husband's  took  away." 

Even  Leonora  could  not  withstand  this.  "  Mother," 
said  she,  "  Mr.  Blague  thinks  you  are  a  fool ;  I'm  sure 
I  do." 

"  Don't  speak  so,  dear,"  responded  the  mother  ten 
derly.  "  You  are  not  yourself  this  morning."  . 

"  That's  a  blessing :  then  I'm  not  your  daughter  ;  " 
and  without  asking  to  be  released  from  the  table,  Leonora 
rose,  and  lounged  out  of  the  room. 

Arthur  thought  it  time  for  business.  "I  am  to 
nurse  Mr.  Ruggles,  Dr.  Gilbert  tells  me,"  said  he,  re- 


102 

calling  Mrs.  Ruggles  from  the  admiring  contemplation 
of  her  daughter's  retiring  figure. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  should  have  spoke 
of  it  before,  but  I  knew  father  was  asleep,  and  that  Jos- 
lyn  would  call  us  if  any  thing  happened.  I  s'pose  (and 
Mrs.  Ruggles  sighed)  that  because  I  talk,  and  eat  my 
victuals,  you  and  Leonora  think  I  don't  feel  this 
stroke,  but  little  do  you  know  !  I  have  to  talk,  for  my 
mind's  distracted,  and  I  think  of  every  thing ;  and  I  have 
to  eat  to  support  natur'  and  bear  up.  Arthur,  I  forgot 
to  inquire  about  your  mother.  How  is  she  ?  " 

Arthur's  eyes  filled  with  tears  in  an  instant.  "  She 
can  neither  talk,  nor  eat,  nor  bear  up,  as  you  say,"  he 
replied. 

"  She  was  always  kind  o'  weakly,"  said  Mrs.  Rug 
gles,  musing.  "  Dear  me  !  How  well  I  remember  her 
when  she  felt  too  big  to  speak  to  me  !  She  was  mighty 
crank  when  she  married  the  storekeeper ;  but  some  goes 
up  and  some  goes  down  ;  and  isn't  it  strange,  now,  that 
her  boy  should  come  here  and  wait  upon  father !  " 
Mrs.  Ruggles  said  this  without  the  remotest  suspicion 
that  her  remarks  were  utterly  offensive. 

"  My  mother  is  a  lady,  Mrs.  Ruggles,  and  never 
treated  you  in  any  other  than  a  ladylike  way.  I  beg 
you  never  to  mention  her  again." 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feel 
ings,"  replied  the  woman,  wondering  at  Arthur's  im 
pudence.  "  I'm  very  sorry,  of  course,  for  your  mother. 
I  ra'ally  hope  she's  got  something  in  her  own  right,  and 
that  she'll  chirk  up,  and  git  along  comfortable." 

Arthur  bit  his  lip,  vexed  at  the  woman's  stolid  per 
tinacity,  and  amused  in  spite  of  himself  with  her  lack  of 


AN   AMEEICAN    STOKY.  103 

sense  and  sensibility.    He  rose,  and  said :  "  Will  you  call 
Joslyn,  Mrs.  Ruggles  1  " 

The  floor  creaked,  and  shook,  as  the  large  woman 
went  on  her  errand ;  and  soon  afterwards  Joslyn  ap 
peared — a  white,  tallowy-looking,  middle-aged  man,  with 
a  large,  flat  face,  faded  eyes,  and  a  bald  spot  on  the  top 
of  his  head  over  which  the  hair  was  braided. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Ruggles  1 "  inquired  Arthur. 

"  I  don'  know,"  replied  Joslyn  in  a  whisper. 

"  Does  he  suffer  1 " 

"  I  don'  know,  I'm  sure." 

"  Did  Dr.  Gilbert  set  his  broken  leg  1 " 

"  I  don'  know.     He  did  something  to  it." 

"  Are  you  to  stay  here  ?  " 

"  I  don'  know,  I'm  sure." 

"  What  are  you  doing  for  him  1 " 

"  I  don'  know.  Dr.  Gilbert  told  me  to  set  by  him, 
and  give  him  his  drops  once  in  two  hours  if  he  was 
awake.  If  he  wasn't,  I  wasn't  to  wake  him  up." 

"  Well,"  said  Arthur,  "  tell  me  about  the  drops,  and 
then  go  home,  and  go  to  bed.  I  will  look  after  Mr. 
Ruggles." 

"  Just  as  you  say,  of  course,"  said  Joslyn. 

Then  Joslyn  explained  the  doctor's  directions,  and 
hoped  Arthur  would  stand  between  him  and  all  harm, 
if  the  master  should  wake  and  be  offended  because  he 
had  left  him.  "  I  feel  particular  about  keeping  in  with 
him,"  said  Joslyn  in  explanation,  "  for  I  have  a  good 
many  to  look  after."  Having  said  this,  the  humble  and 
fearful  man  spread  a  spotted  bandanna  handkerchief 
over  his  head,  and  went  off  through  the  storm  toward 


104 

his  little  tenement  on  tiptoe,  as  if  the  street  were  lined 
with  babies  in  profound  slumber. 

Arthur  entered  the  room  where  the  proprietor  lay. 
Pale  and  haggard — the  more  so  in  seeming  for  the  black 
ness  of  his  beard — he  lay  moaning  in  a  narcotic  dream. 
Arthur  took  a  seat  by  his  side,  and,  in  doing  so,  made 
a  noise  with  his  chair.  The  eyes  of  the  sleeper  were 
instantaneously  wide  open.  Wild,  glassy,  and  appre 
hensive,  they  gazed  into  Arthur's  face  with  an  expres 
sion  that  sent  a  shudder  through  his  frame.  It  was  an 
expression  of  hate,  astonishment,  and  inquiry.  The 
master  tried  to  rise,  but  his  muscles  refused  to  lift  him 
an  inch. 

"  What  am  I  here  for  ?  What  are  you  here  for  1 " 
whispered  the  man. 

"You  have  met  with  an  accident,"  said  Arthur, 
.stooping  over  him.  "You  are  very  badly  hurt,  and 
must  be  quiet." 

"  Who  says  I'm  hurt  ?  Who  hurt  me  ?  Why  ain't 
you  to  work  ?  "  Old  Ruggles  gasped  with  the  exertion 
which  the  words  cost  him. 

Then  Arthur  told  him  all  about  his  injury,  and  what 
had  been  done  for  him,  and  furthermore  informed  him 
that  he  must  obey  all  directions,  or  he  could  not  live. 
As  the  meaning  of  Arthur's  words  sank  slowly  into  his 
benumbed  consciousness,  the  fierce  look  faded  out  of 
the  master's  eyes,  and  gave  place  to  an  expression  of 
fear  and  anxiety. 

"  Don't  let  me  die,"  said  he,  with  a  pitiful  whine. 
"  Don't  let  me  die.  I  can't  die." 

"  We  shall  do  all  we  can  for  you,  but  you  must  not 
talk,"  said  Arthur. 


AN   AMERICAN    STOEY.  105 

"  I  didn't  mean  you  any  harm,"  whimpered  the  mas 
ter,  evidently  recalling  his  treatment  of  Arthur,  an^ 
afraid  that  the  young  man  would  revenge  himself  upon 
him  in  some  way.  "I  didn't  mean  you  any  harm. 
Don't  lay  up  any  thing  agin  me."  And  the  cowardly 
man  cried  like  a  helpless  baby. 

Arthur  reassured  him,  and  then  without  further  par 
ley  commanded  him  to  be  silent.  So  the  proprietor  of 
Hucklebury  Run,  subdued  by  fear  and  helplessness,  put 
himself  into  the  hands  of  his  new  apprentice.  Arthur 
watched  him  through  the  long  morning,  and  as  the  re 
action  from  the  terrible  nervous  shock  came  on,  he 
hung  over  him,  and  fanned  him  as  faithfully  as  if  he 
had  been  his  own  father.  With  the  reaction  came  in 
sanity.  The  master  was  in  his  mill,  scolding  his  hands, 
and  raving  about  Arthur.  He  accused  one  of  wasting, 
and  another  of  idling,  and  threatened  another. 

At  noon,  Dr.  Gilbert's  little  pony  came  pounding 
over  the  bridge  that  crossed  the  Run,  and  the  gig  reeled 
up  to  the  door,  the  doctor  touching  the  ground  before 
the  vehicle  had  fairly  stopped.  He  found  his  patient 
quite  as  well  as  he  expected  to  find  him ;  and  giving 
Arthur  full  directions  as  to  his  management,  he  told 
him  that  he  had  provided  company  for  his  mother,  and 
that  she  would  not  expect  him  home  until  it  should  be 
proper  for  him  to  leave  his  charge. 

Convalescence,  with  the  proprietor,  was  very  slow 
in  its  progress,  and  frequently  interrupted  by  relapses. 
It  was  for  many  weeks  a  matter  of  doubt  whether  he 
would  ever  permanently  recover.  In  the  mean  time, 
Aunt  Catharine  had  taken  it  upon  herself  to  see  that 
Mrs.  Blague  was  not  left  alone,  and  that  she  needed  no 
5* 


106 

essential  service  which  Arthur's  absence  deprived  her 
of.  Business  at  the  mill  went  on  entirely  through  the 
medium  of  Arthur  Blague.  He  was  nurse,  accountant, 
confidential  clerk,  salesman  at  the  store,  factotum.  He 
was  the  only  man  competent  to  do  the  business  corres 
pondence  for  his  employer  ;  and  as  the  latter  was  clear 
headed  after  the  first  few  days  of  fever,  he  made  the 
young  man  his  right  arm  in  every  department  of  his 
affairs. 

It  had  been  one  of  the  pet  boasts  of  old  Euggles  that 
he  had  never  been  sick  a  day  in  his  life,  and  had  never 
paid  a  doctor's  bill.  All  his  business  he  had  done  him 
self.  There  was  not  a  man  at  the  Run  in  his  employ 
who  had  a  particle  of  his  confidence,  or  who  had  ever 
known  any  thing  of  his  business  affairs.  He  never  ex 
pected  to  be  sick.  It  had  never  entered  into  his  thought 
as  among  the  possibilities  of  life  that  he  should  be  dis 
abled  and  dependent.  To  suppose  that  such  a  man 
should  take  such  restraint  and  such  dependence  patiently, 
wrould  be  to  expect  miracles.  To  Arthur  he  was  exact 
ing  to  the  last  degree  of  forbearance — giving  him  hardly 
time  for  sleep,  and  allowing  him  only  a  moment  occa 
sionally  to  drop  in  upon  his  mother  and  little  Jamie,  on 
the  way  to  the  post-office. 

There  was  one  shrewd  pair  of  eyes  that  watched  all 
these  proceedings  with  great  speculative  curiosity. 
Mrs.  Ruggles,  relieved  by  Arthur  from  a  serious  bur 
den  of  care,  was  aware  of  his  importance  to  her  hus 
band,  not  only  as  nurse,  but  as  business  executive. 
Arthur's  quiet  assumption  of  entire  social  equality,  and 
his  actual  personal  superiority,  had  impressed  the  woman 
very  decidedly ;  and  when  she  saw  how  well  he  took 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  107 

hold  of  affairs,  how  much  her  husband  depended  upon 
him,  and  how  necessary  he  would  be  to  the  business  in 
the  event  of  a  fatal  termination  of  the  master's  injuries, 
she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  permanent  part 
nership  between  him  and  dear  Leonora  would  be  a  very 
profitable  and  a  very  desirable  thing.  The  business  at 
the  Kun  could  go  along  without  difficulty.  Arthur 
would  come  there  to  live,  and  the  Widow  Ruggles,  not 
without  her  comforts,  would  pass  her  days  in  prosperity 
equal  to  her  previous  lot,  and  in  peace  quite  superior. 

Conveniently  without  the  slightest  sensibility,  she 
had  no  difficulty  in  approaching  the  subject  which  occu 
pied  her  thoughts,  in  her  interviews  with  Arthur ;  and 
it  must  be  confessed  that,  foolish  as  the  girl  thought  her 
mother  to  be,  she  lent  herself  to  her  schemes.  Bred  to 
feel  that  money  was  the  grand  requisite  for  social  po 
sition  and  personal  power,  she  believed  that  she  was 
mistress  of  her  own  matrimonial  destiny.  She  had  but 
to  indicate  her  willingness  to  link  her  fortunes  with 
those  of  any  poor  young  man,  to  secure  that  young 
man's  everlasting  gratitude.  It  had  been  drummed  into 
her  ears  by  the  repetitious  tongue  of  her  mother,  even 
from  young  girlhood,  that  the  ultimate  mistress  of 
Hucklebury  Run,  and  heir  presumptive  of  Madam  Rug 
gles'  bank  stock,  held  in  her  own  right,  could  marry 
whomsoever  in  Crampton,  or  in  the  towns  thereunto 
adjacent,  she  might  choose. 

"Whether  eggs  had  gone  down  materially,  soon  after 
Arthur's  advent  into  the  family,  the  young  man  did  not 
know,  but  he  noticed  a  very  decided  improvement  in 
the  quality  of  the  coffee.  Leonora,  too,  grew  from  day 
to  day  more  careful  in  her  dress,  and  was  always,  at 


108 

certain  times,  to  be  found  sitting  in  Arthur's  way. 
Wholly  preoccupied,  the  honest-hearted,  unsuspicious 
fellow  did  not  notice  these  things  at  all.  The  possibility 
of  a  wife  and  daughter  setting  themselves  seriously  at 
work  to  entice  a  young  man  into  a  matrimonial  alliance, 
at  a  moment  when  the  husband  and  father  lay  in  an  ad 
joining  room,  trembling  between  life  and  death,  was 
something  alike  beyond  his  suspicion  and  his  compre 
hension. 

One  morning,  Arthur  was  detained  from  his  break 
fast  some  minutes  after  it  was  announced  to  be  ready. 
On  entering  the  room,  he  found  the  mother  and  daughter 
waiting.  Arthur  took  his  accustomed  seat  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  with  Leonora  at  his  right  hand,  robed  in  a 
very  comely  morning  wrapper,  and  a  mingled  atmos 
phere  of  sassafras-soap,  and  sour  hair. 

Mrs.  Ruggles  looked  radiantly  across  the  table  at 
Arthur,  as  if  she  were  sighting  a  cannon,  the  top  of  the 
coffee-pot  serving  as  the  initial  point  in  the  range. 
"  Leonora  and  me  has  been  talking  about  you,"  said 
the  lady.  "  You  see  we  couldn't  get  along  without  you 
at  all,  and  I  don't  know  but  we  should  have  starved  to 
death  if  you  hadn't  come.  It  seems  just  as  nateral  to 
have  you  to  the  head  of  the  table  somehow,  as  it  does 
to  have  father,  and  that  was  what  Leonora  and  me  was 
saying.  Leonora,  says  she,  How  well  Mr.  Blague  looks 
to  the  head  of  the  table,  setting  up  so  tall  and  hand 


some  I 


? " 


"  Mother  Ruggles  !  "  Leonora  simpered,  shocked 
purely  as  a  matter  of  conventional  propriety. 

Mrs.  Ruggles  giggled.  "  Look  at  her,  Arthur,  and 
see  how  she  blushes,"  said  the  fond  mother,  pointing  to 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  109 

the  impassive  face  of  her  daughter.  "  You  needn't 
blush  so,  for  it's  just  what  I've  said  myself.  But  we 
don't  make  ourselves ;  it's  nothing  for  us  to  be  lifted 
up  about."  The  lady  drew  on  a  pious  look,  as  if  she 
were  the  last  person  who  would  be  guilty  of  feeding 
Arthur's  vanity,  and  the  first  decently  to  remind  him 
of  the  great  Author  of  all  beauty.  "  No,  we  don't  make 
ourselves,"  continued  Mrs.  Ruggles,  "  but  we  know  that 
some  looks  well  to  the  head  of  the  table,  and  some 
don't.  Some  seems  calculated  to  be  the  head  of  a  fam 
ily,  and  some  seems  ridiculous  when  we  think  of  it.  If 
there's  any  thing  that  I  hate,  it  is  to  see  a  little  man  to 
the  head  of  the  table,  particular  if  his  wife  is  a  sizable 
woman,  and  he  isn't  big  enough  to  say,  Why  do  ye  so  ? 
I  was  saying  to  Leonora,  only  a  day  or  two  ago,  says  I, 
Dear,  when  you  get  married — and  I  hope  you  don't  think 
of  such  a  thing  for  the  present — do  you  look  out  for  a 
husband  not  an  inch  shorter  than  Arthur  Blague,  for 
I've  seen  you  together,  and  there's  just  the  right  differ 
ence  between  you.  That's  just  what  I  said  to  her — 
wasn't  it,  dear  1 " 

"You  say  a  great  many  foolish  things,  mother," 
said  Leonora,  lazily. 

"  Now,  dear,  don't  say  so.  Young  folks  always 
thinks  old  folks  is  fools,  but  when  I  see  your  father 
lying  dangerous,  and  the  only  child  I  have  to  my  back 
in  a  way  of  being  left  alone  without  any  pertector,  it's 
nateral  for  mothers  to  think  of  the  future,  and  to  calcu 
late  on  what  they'd  like  to  see  brung  about.  Don't  you 
think  so,  Arthur?" 

Arthur  thus  appealed  to,  responded  as  the  lady  ap 
parently  desired. 


110 

"  S'posing  every  thing  suits,  and  every  thing  should 
be  brung  about  just  as  it  might  be,  and  no  damage 
done  to  nobody,"  pursued  the  woman  mysteriously, 
"  what  is  your  notion  about  a  woman's  holding  her 
property  in  her  own  right  ?  I  mean  after  she  get's  mar 
ried,  of  course." 

Arthur  replied  coolly,  that  he  trusted  all  married 
women  who  desired  to  hold  property  in  their  own 
right,  would  do  so  by  all  means.  As  far  as  he  was  per 
sonally  concerned,  while  he  would  not  blame  a  woman 
for  having  property,  he  should  altogether  prefer  that 
she  should  depend  upon  him  for  support,  rather  than  be 
independent  of  him. 

"  I  think  those  notions  is  good,  and  honable,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Ruggles.  "  A  husband  always  ought  to 
support  his  family,  and  then  if  a  woman  has  any  thing 
in  her  own  right,  she  can  keep  it.  When  I  was  mar 
ried,  I  had  bank  stock,  and  I've  always  kept  it  in  my 
own  right,  and  father  never  has  had  a  cent  of  it,  and  it's 
always  been  a  comfort  to  me  to  think  that  if  he  should 
be  took  away,  or  any  thing  should  happen,  I  hold  my 
bank  stock  in  my  own  right,  and  nobody  can  say,  Why 
do  ye  so  1  Oh  !  I  think  it's  such  a  comfort  to  a  woman 
to  have  bank  stock,  if  her  husband's  took  away ;  don't 
you,  Arthur  1 " 

Arthur  was  polite  enough  not  to  tell  her  that  there 
were  some  women  who,  he  believed,  would  very  much 
rather  lose  their  husbands  than  their  bank  stock,  but  he 
thought  so,  and  hurried  through  a  meal  made  repulsive 
by  the  worldly  Mrs.  Ruggles'  conversation,  and  her  in 
sipid  daughter's  presence.  But  one  breakfast  was  the 
pattern  of  many  others  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Ruggles  saw  how 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  Ill 

important  Arthur  was  becoming  to  her  husband,  and 
how  desirable  an  element  he  was  in  the  society  of 
Hucklebury  Run,  she  became  only  the  more  pertina 
cious  in  her  persecution  of  him  on  her  daughter's  be 
half.  Arthur  could  readily  bring  his  mind  to  bear  with 
his  master's  petulant  exactions,  but  the  flattery  of  the 
mistress,  and  her  daughter's  patronizing  and  familiar 
airs,  were  more  than  he  could  abide. 

In  truth,  there  was  a  reason  for  his  disgust  with 
Mrs.  Ruggles  and  her  daughter,  beyond  the  repulsive 
nature  of  their  advances.  He  had  never  forgotten  the 
expression  of  those  blue  eyes  that  looked  into  his  on 
the  morning  after  the  accident  to  the  proprietor.  He 
had  never  forgotten  those  low-spoken,  well-spoken 
words,  and  the  unconscious  compliment  which  they 
conveyed  to  him.  He  had  visited  the  mill  every  day — 
often  many  times  in  a  day.  Always,  of  course,  he  had 
sought  for  the  mysterious  young  woman  who  seemed 
so  different  from  all  her  associates.  The  sun-bonnet  was 
always  upon  her  head.  She  seemed  to  hold  communi 
cation  with  no  one,  and  to  be  not  unfrequently  in  tears. 
He  was  thrown  into  no  relations  with  her  that  war 
ranted  him  in  extending  conversation,  and  he  could  as 
certain  nothing  about  her  from  others,  beyond  the  facts 
that  she  had  been  in  the  mill  for  six  monttts,  always 
kept  her  own  counsel,  was  well  educated,  intelligent, 
amiable,  and  religious ;  was  sad-hearted,  and  bore  the 
name  of  Mary  Hammett. 

If  Arthur  was  abundantly  employed  during  the 
hours  in  which  he  was  upon  his  feet,  he  was  also  abun 
dantly  employed  in  his  hours  of  retirement.  The  fever 
that  so  frequently  attacks  young  men  at  nineteen  was 


112  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

upon  him — a  fever  invariably  excited  by  a  woman  su 
perior  in  years  and  experience.  Mary  Hammett  was 
twenty-two,  and  had  the  maturity  of  a  man  of  twenty- 
five  ;  but  to  Arthur  Blague  the  earth  soon  came  to  hold 
no  such  divinity  as  she.  The  factory  became  a  charm 
ing  place  because  she  was  in  it.  Hucklebury  Run  was 
heaven,  because  hallowed  by  the  residence  of  one  of 
heaven's  angels.  Arthur  had  not  been  without  his 
school-boy  fancy  for  Fanny  Gilbert,  but  she  had  never 
possessed  the  power  to  stir  his  deeper  nature.  Only  the 
mature  woman  could  do  this,  and  all  his  boyish  likings 
were  swept  out  of  mind  by  his  new  and  all-pervading 
passion. 

Autumn  deepened  into  winter,  and  winter  was  soft 
ening  into  spring,  before  the  health  of  the  proprietor 
was  so  far  re-established  as  to  allow  his  young  assistant 
once  more  to  become  permanently  a  resident  of  his 
mother's  home.  In  the  mean  time,  Aunt  Catharine  in 
person,  or  by  the  assistance  of  sympathetic  friends,  had 
ministered  to  Arthur's  lonely  mother,  and  little  Jamie 
had  grown  into  healthy  and  comely  babyhood. 

But  Arthur  had  become  too  important  to  the  pro 
prietor  to  be  lightly  spared.  It  was  a  loss  to  old  Rug- 
gles  in  many  ways  to  allow  him  to  lodge  at  home.  The 
old  man  could  never  again  be  in  his  business  what  he 
had  been.  His  broken  limb  was  shortened,  and  he  could 
only  get  about  upon  his  cane.  His  nerves  were  shat 
tered,  and  he  could  not  write.  He  could  not  live  with 
out  Arthur.  In  the  measure  of  his  dependence  upon 
the  young  man,  he  had  grown  careful  not  to  offend  him. 
Thoroughly  selfish  himself,  and  incapable  of  appreciating 
any  thing  higher  than  selfishness  as  a  motive  of  action, 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  113 

he  had  addressed  himself  in  all  possible  ways  to  Ar 
thur's  personal  ambition  and  desire  to  get  forward  in 
the  world.  He  had  hinted  vaguely  at  a  partnership, 
possible  in  the  future — at  a  great  increase  of  wages 
when  some  desirable  changes  in  his  business  should  be 
accomplished — at  a  sale  of  Hucklebury  Run  entire  to 
Arthur,  when  that  young  man  should  arrive  at  his 
majority,  etc. 

The  aim  of  all  these  magnificent  promises  was  to  in 
duce  Arthur  to  leave  his  mother's  roof,  and  become  a 
resident  of  the  Run.  At  length,  uncomfortable  weather 
and  most  inconvenient  walking  determined  him  to 
consider  the  master's  desires,  and  to  cast  about  for 
some  one  to  take  his  place  as  nightly  society  for  his 
mother. 

It  would  not  do  to  depend  upon  Aunt  Catharine 
again,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  would  not  have  thought 
of  doing  it  had  it  been  the  most  practicable  thing  in 
the  world.  He  had  conceived  a  project,  and  he  would 
not  be  content  until  it  should  be  fulfilled.  On  the  same 
day  during  which  he  had  come  to  his  determination, 
circumstances  opened  a  door  to  favor  its  fulfilment. 


114: 


CHAPTEK    VII. 

IN  WHICH  THE   CENTRE   SCHOOL  OF  CKAMPTON  IS  HANDSOMELY 
PEOVIDED   FOE. 

ARTHUR  divulged  his  new  plan  to  his  mother,  kindly 
bore  with  her  scruples,  or  very  kindly  bore  them  down, 
and  quite  inspired  her,  for  the  moment,  with  his  own 
overflowing  enthusiasm.  That  was  the  initial  step  in 
the  business  ;  the  next  was  to  see  Dr.  Gilbert. 

So  he  left  the  mill  early  one  evening  for  the  purpose 
of  making  the  visit.  He  rang  the  bell  at  the  physi 
cian's  dwelling,  and  was  invited  into  the  parlor.  Aunt 
Catharine  was  rocking  herself  very  slowly  and  knitting 
very  fast,  showing  thereby  a  peaceful  condition  of  mind, 
and,  on  the  whole,  a  pleasant  state  of  things  in  the  fam 
ily.  Fanny,  looking  weary  and  sleepy,  was  reading  a 
novel.  Little  Fred  sat  at  his  sister's  side,  his  head  in 
her  lap,  asleep. 

Aunt  Catharine,  who  indulged  in  a  great  admiration 
of  Arthur,  greeted  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  favorite 
nephew  ;  and  Fanny's  face  lost  its  weary  look  entirely. 
The  doctor,  whom  Arthur  inquired  for,  was  not  at  home, 
but  was  expected  every  moment. 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  115 

"  How  is  your  mother  to-night  ? "  inquired  Aunt 
Catharine,  in  her  crisp  way,  her  needles  snapping  as  if 
they  were  letting  off  sparks  of  electricity. 

"  She  is  as  well  as  usual,"  replied  Arthur,  "  but 
you  know  how  it  is  with  her." 

"  Miserable,  I  suppose,  of  course,"  said  Aunt  Cath 
arine.  "  She  always  is  miserable,  and  I  presume  she 
always  willjbe,  and  it's  a  blessed  thing  that  it  is  so.  I 
sometimes  think  that  she  is  so  used  to  misery  that  hap 
piness  would  shock  her.  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  her 
this  winter,  and  it's  my  candid  opinion  that  misery,  if 
she  has  a  good  chance  to  talk  about  it,  is  the  only  solid 
comfort  she  has.  I  think  it  would  seem  so  unnatural 
for  her  to  be  comfortable,  that  it  would  make  her — " 

"Miserable,"  suggested  Fanny  ;  and  the  young  wo 
man  laughed  at  her  aunt's  philosophy. 

"  It's  just  so,"  pursued  Aunt  Catharine,  "  and  you 
mark  my  word,  Arthur — your  mother  will  live  to  be 
an  old  woman." 

"  I'm  quite  delighted,"  said  Arthur. 

"  As  for  me,  trouble  kills  me,"  resumed  Aunt  Cath 
arine.  "  Oh  !  if  I  could  only  wilt  down  like  your 
mother  when  trouble  comes,  and  get  so  used  to  it  as 
not  to  expect  any  thing  better,  I  could  get  along ;  but 
dear  me  !  I've  no  doubt  that  some  day  will  bring  along 
a  great  tribulation  that  will  break  my  life  off  as  short 
as  a  pipe-stem." 

This  was  altogether  the  most  cheerful  view  of  his 
mother's  case  that  Arthur  had  ever  seen  presented.  It 
was  not  offensive  to  him,  because  he  knew  that  it  came 
from  as  sympathetic  and  friendly  a  heart  as  Crampton 
contained. 


116  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEER: 

/.     li 

"  How  have  you  enjoyed  being  in  Mr.  Buggies'  fam 
ily  this  winter  ?  "  inquired  Fanny,  archly. 

Arthur,  poor  simpleton,  did  not  know  how  much 
there  was  in  this  inquiry ;  so  he  replied  that  he  had 
"  enjoyed  it  as  well  as  possible,  under  the  circum 
stances  " — a  very  safe  and  comprehensive  answer,  that 
might  mean  much  or  little,  in  either  direction. 

"  Miss  Euggles,  I  understand,  is  quite  accomplished," 
said  Fanny. 

"Is  she?" 

"  Is  she,  indeed  !  Is  it  possible  you  have  been  three 
months  in  the  family,  and  her  mother  hasn't  told  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  delicious  bit  of  malice  and  jealousy  in 
this,  that  would  have  excited  any  man  but  one  who  was 
wholly  preoccupied ;  so,  while  the  hit  appeared  admi 
rable,  he  did  not  understand  his  own  relations  to  it. 

"  I've  been  told  she  was  very  expensively  educated," 
pursued  Fanny,  "  really,  now  !  " 

"  So  have  I." 

"  You're  a  sweet  pair  of  slanderers,  upon  my  word," 
exclaimed  Aunt  Catharine. 

"  At  least,"  said  Fanny,  "  she  must  present  a  very 
strong  contrast  to  her  father  and  mother." 

"  I  think  she  does,  very,"  responded  Arthur. 

"  Oh  !  you  do  !  I  presumed  so."  Fanny  nodded 
her  head  and  smiled  very  shrewdly,  as  if  her  suspicions 
were  fully  confirmed.  "  Perhaps,"  she  continued,  "  you 
will  tell  Aunt  Catharine  and  me  some  of  the  precious 
particulars  of  this  contrast." 

"  I  should  say,"  replied  Arthur,  "  that  her  father  was 
not  lazy,  and  that  her  mother  was  not  extravagant." 

"  Upon  my  word ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Catharine  again. 


AX  AMERICAN    STORY.  117 

"Arthur  Blague,  apologize  to  me  this  instant  for  slan 
dering  one  of  my  sex." 

"  It's  the  old  story,"  replied  Arthur.  "  The  woman 
tempted  me,  and  I  did  eat." 

"  And  who  tempted  the  woman,  pray  ?  "  said  Fanny. 

"  A  little  serpent  with  very  green  eyes,"  responded 
Aunt  Catharine. 

"  Aunt  Catharine  !  Arn't  you  ashamed  !  "  Fanny 
was  vexed,  and  blushed  charmingly. 

"  Arthur  has  a  right  to  be  just  as  much  pleased  with 
Miss  Leonora  as  he  chooses  to  be,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt 
Catharine  in  her  spicy  way.  "  I  confess  that  I  do  not 
see  what  right  you  have  to  question  him." 

"  Of  course,  he  has,"  responded  Fanny.  "  I  hope 
you  don't  imagine  that  I  have  any  fault  to  find  with  any 
fondness  he  may  have  for  her." 

"  Oh  !  not  the  least,  my  dear,"  Aunt  Catharine  re 
sponded,  thoroughly  enjoying  Fanny's  poorly  disguised 
annoyance ;  "  girls  are  so  generous  toward  each  other  !  " 

Fanny  was  delighted  to  hear  her  father's  footsteps 
at  the  door,  and  to  have  a  change  in  the  current  of  con 
versation.  Dr.  Gilbert  came  into  the  parlor,  greeted 
Arthur  with  bluff  heartiness,  and  then,  with  whip  in 
hand  and  buffalo  coat  still  unbuttoned,  inquired  if  there 
had  been  any  calls  for  him.  There  had  been  none. 
The  coat  was  thrown  open,  and  the  doctor  sat  down  be 
fore  the  fire  and  warmed  himself. 

There  was  something  in  the  conversation  which  pre 
ceded  his  advent,  that  made  Arthur  shrink  from  pre 
senting  his  errand  in  the  presence  of  the  family  ;  but  it 
seemed  quite  as  hard  to  ask  him  for  a  private  audience, 
as  to  state  his  wishes  in  the  hearing  of  Aunt  Catharine 


118 

and  Fanny.  He  felt  half-guilty,  and  he  knew  not  of 
what.  His  heart  beat  thickly,  and  his  hands  and  feet 
grew  cold. 

"  Well,  Arthur,"  said  Dr.  Gilbert,  still  looking  into 
the  fire,  "  how  do  you  and  Ruggles  get  along  together  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  Glad  to  hear  it.  The  old  fellow  is  not  quite  so 
bad  as  he  is  represented  to  be — is  he,  now "?  " 

"  Possibly  not,  though  to  tell  the  truth,  he  is  quite 
as  agreeable  to  me  when  he  is  disagreeable,  as  he  is 
when  agreeable." 

"  Father,  you  don't  know  how  absurd  these  people 
are  to-night,"  said  Fanny,  glad  to  find  her  tongue  again. 
"  Aunt  says  that  Mrs.  Blague  is  never  so  happy  as  when 
she  is  miserable,  and  Arthur  thinks  that  Mr.  Ruggles  is 
never  so  agreeable  as  when  he  is  disagreeable." 

"  And  Fanny  has  been  anxiously  inquiring  of  Arthur 
about  a  girl  for  whom  she  does  not  care  a  straw,"  re 
sponded  Aunt  Catharine.  "  Very  absurd,  indeed  ! " 

Arthur  laughed  feebly  with  the  rest,  but  felt  des 
perately  pushed  to  business.  Dr.  Gilbert  removed  his 
overcoat,  and  hung  it  with  his  whip  in  the  hall,  and  the 
young  man  renewed  the  conversation  with  :  "  Speaking 
of  Mr.  Ruggles — he  wishes  very  much  to  have  me  give 
up  boarding  at  home,  and  to  become  more  thoroughly 
a  fixture  of  his  establishment.  I  have  so  much  to  do 
for  him,  that  it  really  seems  necessary  to  be  there  all 
the  time,  and  the  walking,  you  know,  is  very  bad 
now." 

"  Who  is  to  take  care  of  your  mother  ?  "  inquired 
the  doctor. 

"  That  is  precisely  the  question  which  brought  me 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  119 

here  to-night.  I  wish  to  get  your  advice,  and  possibly 
your  help." 

"  What  are  your  plans  ?     Have  you  any  plans  ?  " 

The  young  man  fidgeted.  He  knew  Fanny's  eyes 
were  upon  him,  and  was  half-afraid  that  they  read  every 
thing  that  was  in  his  heart. 

"  Any  thing  definite  to  propose  1 "  and  the  doctor 
wheeled  about,  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Arthur  very  clumsily,  "  that — 
that  the,  ah — centre  school  is  soon  to  be  without  a 
teacher." 

"  Another  sad  case  of  matrimony,"  said  Fanny  aside 
to  her  aunt. 

"  Yes,  there'll  be  a  vacancy  at  the  centre  in  a  week," 
replied  the  doctor. 

"  You  are  the  prudential — prudential — " 

"  Prudential  committee,"  slipped  in  the  doctor  in  a 
hurry.  "  Of  course  I  am,  and  have  been  these  twenty 
years." 

"  Have  you  secured  anybody  to  fill  the  vacancy  ?  " 
inquired  Arthur. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  the  doctor,  half-spite- 
fully.  "  I  should  be  glad  to  have  Fanny  take  the  school, 
but  she  is  engaged  in  something  that  suits  her  better,  I 
suppose." 

"  Oh !  of  course,  I  haven't  any  thing  to  say  if  Fanny 
wants  the  school,"  said  Arthur,  bowing  to  the  young 
woman,  and  wishing  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that 
she  would  take  it,  and  relieve  him  of  his  embarrassment 
at  once. 

"  Father  knows  that  I  will  never  willingly  take  the 


120  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

school,"  responded  Fanny,  her  face  grown  hard  with 
determination. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Arthur,  trying  to  assume  a 
business  tone,  "  that  perhaps  you  would  be  willing  to 
engage  some  one  who  would  board  with  my  mother, 
and  be  society  for  her  in  my  absence." 

Fanny  was  mystified,  but  eager.  Her  quick  insight 
had  detected  a  secret  motive  in  Arthur's  strange  em 
barrassment,  that  shaped  his  policy  quite  as  powerfully 
as  his  wish  to  provide  for  his  mother's  comfort. 

"  Do  you  know  of  a  teacher  wrhom  your  mother 
would  like  to  have  in  her  family  ?  "  inquired  the  doc 
tor. 

"  She  would  take  any  one  whom  I  would  recom 
mend,"  replied  Arthur  evasively. 

"  Then  I  take  it  you  have  some  one  in  mind  whom 
you  can  recommend,"  responded  the  doctor.  "  Tell  us 
who  she  is." 

"  There's  a  young  woman  at  the  Run,"  replied  Ar 
thur,  his  face  glowing  with  the  consciousness  that  the 
eyes  of  Aunt  Catharine  and  Fanny  were  upon  him, 
"  who,  I  think,  would  make  an  excellent  teacher  of  the 
school,  and  a  very  pleasant  companion  for  my  mother." 

"  At  the  Run  1     How  came  she  at  the  Run  ?  " 

"  I  never  inquired,"  Arthur  replied. 

u  Does  she  work  in  the  mill  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  her  ?  "  inquired  the  doc 
tor. 

"  I  know  very  little,"  replied  the  young  man,  get 
ting  very  hot  in  the  face.  I  know  she  is  a  lady,  that 
she  seems  very  different  from  the  other  girls,  that  she 


AN    AMERICAN    STORY.  121 

associates  with  them  but  little,  that  she  is  intelligent, 
and  that  she  ought  to  be  somewhere  else." 

"  But  where  did  she  come  from  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know   sir." 

"  How  old  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  old ;  that  is  all  I  know  about  her  age." 

"  What  is  her  name  1 " 

"  Mary  Hammett." 

"Mary  Hammett — Mary  Hammett."  The  doctor 
pronounced  the  name  two  or  three  times  to  see  if  it 
would  recall  the  face  of  any  one,  dead  or  living,  whom 
he  had  known.  "  Mary  Hammett.  What  makes  you 
think  she  is  intelligent  1 " 

"  She  looks  and  talks  as  if  she  were." 

"  Does  she  desire  the  place  1 " 

"  I'm  sure  I — I  don't  know,"  replied  Arthur.  "  I 
never  have  spoken  to  her  about  it.  I  should  think  she 
would  like  it  very  much." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  roared  the  doctor.  "  I  like  this, 
Arthur,  it's  excellent."  And  the  doctor  laughed  again. 
Then  Arthur  laughed,  though  he  did  not  know  exactly 
what  he  was  laughing  about ;  and  Aunt  Catharine  and 
Fanny  laughed,  because  the  doctor  and  Arthur  laughed  ; 
and  little  Fred  awoke  from  his  nap,  because  they  all 
laughed. 

"  I  think  Miss  Mary  Hammett  had  better  be  con 
sulted  on  the  subject  before  we  dispose  of  her,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  came  to  ask  you  to  do," 
replied  Arthur. 

"  Well,  I'll  do  it.     I'll  do  it  to-morrow,"  said  Dr. 
Gilbert.     "  I'm  quite  anxious  to  see  this  marvel." 
0 


122 

"  Now  you  shall  tell  us  all  about  her,"  said  Fanny, 
speaking  with  that  cordial  sweetness  which  a  young 
woman,  just  a  little  jealous,  can  assume  when  she  tries 
very  hard.  "  Is  she  beautiful  1 " 

"  I  think  so.     She  seems  so,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  Hum  !  seems  so  !  Feeling  as  you  do  toward  her, 
she  seems  so  !  You  are  not  entirely  certain  whether 
she  be  so  or  no.  Seems  so  !  "  (Turning  to  the  doctor, 
and  attempting  to  laugh :)  "  Father,  this  is  a  dangerous 
case.  Treat  it  very  carefully." 

"The  green-eyed  serpent  again,"  said  Aunt  Cath 
arine. 

"  Aunt,  you  are  insufferable.  I  really  feel  very 
much  interested  in  Miss  Hammett  already.  It's  quite 
a  romance." 

Arthur  was  embarrassed,  and  felt  very  uncomfort 
able.  He  called  Fred  to  him,  and  took  him  upon  his 
knee.  The  little  fellow  had  always  been  a  favorite  with 
Arthur,  and  had  been  famous  for  asking  "  leading  ques 
tions."  Some  further  conversation  was  had,  when  Fred 
looked  up  in  Arthur's  face  and  said,  "  Do  you  love  Miss 
Hammett  better  than  you  do  Sister  Fanny  ?  " 

This  terminated  the  conference,  and  in  the  midst  of 
much  merriment,  Arthur  rose  to  take  his  leave.  Aunt 
Catharine  lifted  her  forefinger  to  him,  and  said,  in  her 
good-natured,  emphatic  way  :  "  Arthur  Blague,  don't  you 
think  of  getting  married  before  you  are  thirty — not  a 
day  ;  don't  you  dream  of  such  a  thing  !  " 

When  Arthur  had  retired,  and  closed  the  door  after 
himself,  Fanny  said  to  her  brother :  "  Why,  Fred !  don't 
you  know  that  it  is  very  improper  indeed  for  you  to 
ask  such  a  question  of  Arthur  Blague  1  " 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  123 

"  I  thought  you  acted  as  if  you  wanted  to  know,"  re 
plied  the  boy,  "and  I  wasn't  afraid  to  ask  him.  He  al 
ways  tells  me." 

"  Well,  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  bed.  You  are 
a  very  dangerous  young  man." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Fanny,  I  won't  hurt  you,"  re 
sponded  Fred. 

Dr.  Gilbert  was  thinking,  and  drumming  with  his 
fingers  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair.  "  How  fortunate  it 
would  be,"  said  the  doctor,  "  if  Miss  Hammett  should 
prove  to  be  a  good  teacher  for  our  little  boy  here ; " 
and  he  thought  on,  and  drummed  till  the  little  boy 
went  to  bed. 

When  Arthur  went  to  his  room  that  night,  he  felt 
that  he  had  done  a  very  unwarrantable  thing.  What 
would  Miss  Hammett  think  of  him  for  daring  to  pro 
pose  such  a  step  before  consulting  her  1  What  was  he 
— what  was  his  mother — that  they  should  presume  to 
dream  that  so  angelic  a  being  as  Mary  Hammett  would 
deem  it  a  privilege  to  find  a  lodging  under  their  humble 
roof?  She  would  refuse,  of  course,  and  that  would  be 
the  last  of  his  intercourse  with  her.  She  would  detect 
all  his  motives — read  the  mean  record  of  his  selfishness 
— and  despise  him  for  a  desire  to  entrap  her. 

The  purer  and  the  more  exalted  a  young  lover's 
love  may  be,  the  more  unworthy  and  insignificant  does 
he  become  in  his  own  self-estimation.  His  fine  ideal 
becomes,  with  the  growth  of  his  passion,  a  finer  ideal, 
until  he  stands  mean  and  poor  and  contemptible  in  the 
presence  of  perfections  which  his  own  sublimated  im 
agination  has  builded.  This  is  one  of  love's  sweet  mys 
teries,  and  if  Arthur  did  not  comprehend  it,  it  must  be 


12* 

remembered  that  he  was  hardly  nineteen,  and  that  he 
was  in  love  with  a  woman  some  years  his  senior. 

He  dreamed  of  Mary  Hammett  and  Dr.  Gilbert  all 
night,  and  awoke  at  last  in  the  height  of  a  personal  al 
tercation  with  that  gentleman,  resulting  from  the  doc 
tor's  treacherous  attempt  to  secure  the  consent  of  the 
young  woman  to  take  the  place  of  Mrs.  Dr.  Gilbert, 
deceased. 

When  it  is  remembered  that  up  to  this  time  Arthur 
Blague  had  never  exchanged  a  word  with  Miss  Ham 
mett  upon  the  subject  of  his  passion ;  that  their  inter 
views  had  always  been  brief,  hardly  extending,  in  any 
instance,  beyond  the  simplest  and  most  commonplace 
courtesies,  it  will  be  understood  that  he  got  along  very 
fast,  and  was  a  great  distance  in  advance  of  the  young 
woman  herself.  In  truth,  she  had  not  the  remotest  sus 
picion  of  the  condition  of  his  heart.  She  understood, 
respected,  nay,  admired,  his  character,  and  whenever  she 
had  mentioned  him,  she  had  very  freely  and  frankly 
praised  him,  and  this  was  all. 

According  to  his  promise,  Dr.  Gilbert  drove  to 
Hucklebury  Run  the  next  day.  Alighting  at  the  board 
ing-house,  he  sent  to  the  mill  for  Mary  Hammett,  and 
was  soon  in  a  very  interesting  conference  with  her. 
Half  an  hour — three-quarters — a  whole  hour — passed 
away,  and  still  her  looms  did  not  start.  Old  Ruggles, 
hobbling  feebly  about,  was  in  a  fidget  at  the  end  of  the 
first  half-hour,  and  in  a  fever  at  the  end  of  the  second. 
Arthur  saw  the  little  gig  standing  outside,  knew  what 
business  was  in  progress,  and  cursed  his  own  temerity 
a  hundred  times  within  the  hour. 

At  length  a  messenger  came  into  the  mill  from  the 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  125 

boarding-house,  and  said  that  Dr.  Gilbert  wished  to  see 
Arthur  Blague.  Old  Buggies,  even  more  irritable  and 
exacting  than  before  his  sickness,  was  enraged.  He 
would  "  teach  Dr.  Gilbert  to  let  his  hands  alone ;  "  and 
that  was  what  "  came  of  having  help  that  had  high  no 
tions."  He  did  not  undertake  to  interfere  with  Arthur's 
immediate  response  to  the  doctor's  summons,  however, 
for  he  could  not  afford  to  offend  him  now  ;  but  he  laid 
up  a  grudge  against  the  doctor  which  he  never  forgot. 

Arthur  entered  the  boarding-house  with  great  trepi 
dation,  and  found  the  doctor  cosily  cornered  with  Miss 
Hammett  in  the  large  dining-hall,  and  talking  as  easily 
with  her  as  if  he  had  known  her  from  childhood.  His  self- 
possession  in  the  presence  of  such  divinity  was  something 
entirely  beyond  Arthur's  comprehension.  The  young 
woman  rose  as  Arthur  entered,  gave  him  a  pleasant 
greeting,  and  pointed  him  to  a  chair  with  as  much  quiet 
ease  as  if  she  were  the  accustomed  queen  of  a  drawing- 
room,  and  were  receiving  her  friends.  Arthur  returned 
her  greeting  with  rather  an  unnatural  degree  of  warmth, 
the  doctor  thought ;  and  then  the  latter  said :  "  We  are 
getting  along  pretty  well,  but  Miss  Hammett  declines 
to  close  any  bargain  with  me  unless  you  are  present." 

"  You  have  been  kind  enough,"  said  Miss  Hammett 
to  Arthur,  "  to  recommend  me  to  Dr.  Gilbert  as  a  fit 
person  to  take  charge  of  the  centre  school.  He  tells 
me,  also,  that  you  desire  to  have  me  become  a  member 
of  your  mother's  family.  You  know  that  I  cannot  be 
otherwise  than  thankful  for  this  mark  of  your  confidence 
and  respect,  but  there  are  some  things  that  must  be  con 
sidered  before  I  enter  into  your  plans.  I  wish  to  have 
you  withdraw  your  recommendation  of  me  entirely." 


126  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEKR: 

"  But  I  cannot  do  that,"  said  Arthur,  puzzled  by  the 
nature  of  the  request. 

"  Very  well ;  then  you  will,  of  course,  tell  Dr.  Gil 
bert  and  me  what  you  know  about  me." 

"  I  know  nothing  but  what  you  have  taught  me," 
said  Arthur. 

Miss  Hammett  smiled.  "  That  is  very  little,"  said 
she,  "  and  I  wish  to  remove  from  you,  in  the  presence 
of  Dr.  Gilbert,  all  responsibility  for  me.  I  did  not 
suppose  you  had  a  competent  reason  for  recommending 
me,  and  I  wish  the  doctor  to  know  it.  You  have 
thought  it  strange  that  I  am  here,  I  suppose." 

Arthur  colored,  and  said  that  he  had. 

"  Has  there  been  any  gossip  about  me  at  the  Run "? " 
inquired  Miss  Hammett. 

"  None  of  any  consequence — none  that  has  done  you 
harm." 

"  Yet  I  am  a  mystery,  I  suppose." 

"  They  wonder  where  you  came  from,  why  you  are 
here,  what  your  history  is — it  is  very  natural." 

"  Possibly,  though  I  do  not  see  how.  I  have  never 
assumed  any  thing.  I  have  never  sought,  as  I  have 
never  shunned,  society  ;  and  I  presume  there  are  many 
here  whose  histories  are  unknown  to  the  rest,  like  my 
own.  You  are  sure  that  if  I  go  to  Crampton  no  rumors 
will  follow  me  to  injure  my  good  name,  and  those  who 
befriend  me "? " 

The  doctor  had  spent  all  the  time  he  could,  and  rose 
to  his  feet.  "  I  see  what  you  wish,"  said  he  to  Miss 
Hammett,  "  and  as  my  shoulders  are  broad,  I  will  re 
lease  Arthur  from  all  responsibility.  I  don't  care 
where  you  came  from,  what  your  history  is,  or  what 


AN   AMERICAN    STOJJY.  127 

you  are  here  for.  I  have  seen  something  of  men  and 
women  in  my  life,  and  I  say  to  you  frankly,  that  I 
thoroughly  trust  you." 

Miss  Hammett's  blue  eyes  grew  luminous  with  sen 
sibility.  "  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  she,  "  and  now 
promise  me  that  you  will  always  trust  me.  I  will  not 
say  that  I  am  unworthy  of  your  confidence,  for  I  should 
belie  myself;  but  I  must  remain  to  you  just  as  much  of 
a  mystery  as  I  am  now.  Only  believe  this,  Dr.  Gil 
bert,  that  if  you  ever  learn  the  truth  about  me,  by  any 
means,  it  will  bring  disgrace  neither  to  me  nor  to  those 
who  may  befriend  me.  Will  you  promise  me  1  " 
Miss  Hammett  looked  in  the  doctor's  eyes,  and  gave 
him  her  hand. 

"  It  does  not  seem  difficult,"  said  Dr.  Gilbert,  "  to 
promise  you  any  thing ;  and  now  we  will  consider  the 
engagement  closed.  I  bid  you  a  very  good  morning." 
There  was  something  so  uncommonly  complimentary, 
nay,  gallant,  in  the  doctor's  tone  and  bearing,  that  Arthur 
was  annoyed. 

When  the  doctor  left  the  room,  he  left  the  young 
man  not  only  annoyed,  but  oppressed  with  an  uncom 
fortable  sense  of  youthful  insignificance.  The  self-pos 
sessed  and  easy  style  in  which  Dr.  Gilbert  had  borne 
himself  in  Miss  Hammett's  presence,  the  calm  tone  of 
the  young  woman,  the  quiet  manner  in  which  she  had 
shown  him  the  valueless  and  boyish  character  of  his 
recommendation  of  her,  all  tended  to  dwarf  him.  He 
could  not  realize  at  all  that  he  was  six  feet  high,  or 
that  he  had  risen  above  his  initial  teens.*  Oppressed  by 
a  crushing  sense  of  his  insignificance,  he  blushed  under 
the  frank  blue  eyes,  with  the  thought  that  he  could  ever 


128  >iiss  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

have  had  the  audacity  to  love  the  exalted  being  who 
owned  them. 

"  The  doctor  seems  to  have  a  strong,  hearty  nature," 
said  Miss  Hammett,  resuming  conversation. 

"  And  a  strong  and  hearty  will  within  it,"  responded 
Arthur. 

"  I  judge  so,"  said  Miss  Hammett,  "  and  do  not  ob 
ject  to  it.  I  think  I  shall  like  him." 

"  I'm  afraid  you — yes,  of  course,  I  think  you  will," 
said  Arthur. 

Unsuspicious  of  Arthur's  feelings,  Miss  Hammett 
thanked  him  for  his  thoughtfulness,  and  told  him  that 
her  situation  at  the  Run  had  become  almost  insupport 
able  to  her.  "  I  knew  that  Providence  would  open  a 
door  for  me,"  said  she,  "  and  somehow  I  felt,  when  I 
first  saw  you,  that  you  were  sent  to  do  it.  I  think  I 
shall  like  your  quiet  home  and  your  quiet  mother  very 
much."  Then  she  went  to  the  mill  to  find  the  propri 
etor,  that  she  might  give  him  notice  of  her  intention  to 
leave,  and  Arthur  returned  to  his  employment,  thank 
ful,  at  least,  that  he  was  considered  by  Miss  Hammett 
worthy  to  be  the  doorkeeper  of  Providence  for  her  ben 
efit.  He  hoped  that  Providence  would  allow  him  to 
open  doors  for  her  gentle  feet  in  the  years  before  him, 
a  great  many  times. 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  129 

ii&a  oil't  8Yol  ctf  vjofiJ&JB'fi  eaj  fced  s'^i 


CHAPTER   YIII. 

MBS.  RUGGLES  SPREADS   HER  MOTHERLY  WINGS   OVER  ARTHUR, 
AND   IS   UNGRATEFULLY   REPULSED. 

THE  proprietor  would  receive  no  notice  from  Miss 
Hammett,  but  told  her  angrily  that  she  could  go  at 
once.  She  accordingly  made  no  delay  in  exchanging 
her  unpleasant  quarters  at  the  Run  for  the  comfortable, 
quiet,  and  tidy  home  of  Mrs.  Blague.  Arthur's  mother 
received  the  new-comer  very  cordially,  for  Dr.  Gilbert 
had  reassured  her.  As  for  Aunt  Catharine  and  Fanny, 
they  were  in  a  state  of  great  excitement  about  her. 
The  doctor  had  shown  more  enthusiasm  with  relation  to 
Mary  Hammett  than  any  woman  had  excited  in  him  for 
years.  He  could  not  stop  talking  about  her,  and  could 
not  be  stopped  even  by  Aunt  Catharine's  sharp  rallying. 

The  women  can  safely  be  left  to  make  each  other's 
acquaintance,  and  Miss  Hammett  to  commence  her 
school,  while  Arthur's  first  experiences  as  a  regular 
resident  of  the  Eun  are  chronicled. 

The  life  of  Mrs.  Euggles  and  her  daughter  Leonora 
had  never  been  more  delightful  than  during  the  illness 
of  the  husband  and  father,  and  Arthur's  detention  in  the 


130 

family.  He  had  introduced  a  fresh  element  of  life,  and 
it  was  in  accordance  with  their  desire  that  old  Ruggles 
had  invited  him  to  board  in  his  family.  The  charge 
would  be  the  same,  and  the  bedding,  at  least,  much 
more  desirable.  Arthur  shrank  from  coming  in  contact 
with  the  mother  and  daughter  again;  but  his  duties 
would  be  out  of  the  house,  and  he  could  shun  them 
pretty  effectually,  he  thought. 

Very  little  did  the  young  man  know  of  the  resources 
of  his  ingenious  landlady.  Leonora  was  always  wishing 
to  do  a  bit  of  shopping,  and  Arthur  must  take  her  along 
when  he  went  to  the  post-office ;  or  she  wanted  very 
much  to  attend  an  evening  meeting,  and  would  walk  to 
Crampton,  if  Arthur  would  go  for  her  after  factory 
hours ;  or  she  was  out  at  a  neighbor's  house,  and  the 
mother,  worrying  about  her,  wished  that  Arthur  would 
walk  over  and  bring  her  home.  Always,  when  Arthur 
returned,  the  mother  had  retired,  and  there  was  a  nice 
fire  to  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  might  come  in  out  of 
the  chilly  air.  Mrs.  Euggles  said  but  little  when  her 
husband  was  present ;  but  when  he  happened  to  be  ab 
sent  from  a  meal,  the  old  range  of  talk  was  resumed, 
and  often  became  almost  unendurable. 

One  afternoon  Leonora  came  home  from  Crampton, 
whither  she  had  been  on  a  three  days'  visit  to  a  board 
ing-school  acquaintance,  and  brought  back  to  her 
mother  her  first  knowledge  of  Arthur's  agency  in  the 
removal  of  Mary  Hammett,  and  the  stories  to  which  it 
had  given  rise  in  the  village.  The  account  which  she 
gave  of  Miss  Hammett's  sudden  popularity,  and  the  at 
tention  shown  to  her  by  everybody,  filled  the  mother 
with  utter  dismay.  Something  would  have  to  be  done, 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  131 

and  done  at  once ;  but  the  matter  was  delicate,  and 
must  be  delicately  managed.  It  was  managed  very 
delicately — in  Mrs.  Buggies'  opinion. 

Mr.  Buggies  went  to  New  York — his  first  visit  after 
his  long  confinement — and  this  was  Mrs.  Buggies' 
golden  opportunity.  She  did  not  often  visit  the  mill 
now.  Time  had  been  when  she  would  go  in  and  weave 
all  day  to  help  her  husband  along  ;  but  she  had  gradu 
ally  got  above  this  kind  of  amusement,  socially,  and 
grown  too  large  for  it,  physically.  Occasionally  she  wad 
dled  into  the  different  rooms,  when  her  husband  was  away, 
and  held  long  conversations  with  those  whom  she  knew, 
and  then  went  away  very  proudly,  her  cap-strings,  neck, 
erchief  points,  and  a  great  deal  of  woollen  yarn,  follow 
ing  her.  No  sooner  was  her  husband  out  of  sight,  and 
on  his  way  to  market  beyond  the  possibility  of  turning 
back  to  look  after  something  which  he  had  forgotten, 
than  the  ponderous  woman  made  her  appearance  before 
Arthur  Blague,  who  was  endeavoring  to  regulate  mat 
ters  in  the  store,  so  that  codfish  might  be  made  to  as 
sume  that  subordinate  position  among  dry  goods  which 
the  nature  of  the  article  and  good  popular  usage  had 
designated  as  legitimate  and  desirable. 

Mrs.  Ruggles  was  very  amiable.  "  Slicking  up,  eh, 
Arthur  ?  "  said  she,  with  her  most  amiable  and  patron 
izing  expression,  and  looking  around  upon  the  shelves 
in  admiration.  "  I  always  tell  Leonora  that  I  love  to 
see  a  young  man  that  keeps  things  slick  around  him  ; 
for,  says  I  to  Leonora,  a  young  man  that  keeps  things 
slick  around  him,  and  does  not  leave  hair  in  his  comb, 
but  throws  it  out  of  the  winder,  and  keeps  the  dander 


132  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

all  off  his  coat-collar,  and  scrapes  his  feet  before  he 
comes  into  the  house,  always  makes  a  good  husband." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  stand  a  very  poor  chance,"  said 
Arthur.  imo>. 

"  You  musn't  be  so  modest,"  continued  Mrs.  Rug- 
gles,  looking  Arthur  in  the  face  very  encouragingly,  and 
endeavoring  to  convey  a  great  deal  of  meaning  in  her 
look.  "  *  Now,'  says  Leonora  to  me,  when  I  had  got 
through,  says  she,  *  I  know  who  you  mean  ; '  says  she, 
'  you  are  thinking  about  Arthur  Blague.'  Dear  me, 
how  hot  it  is  in  here !  "  Then  Mrs.  Ruggles  helped 
herself  to  a  palm-leaf  fan,  and  sat  down  upon  a  tea- 
chest,  that  creaked  as  if  it  were  going  straight  through 
the  world  to  the  place  where  it  came  from. 

Arthur  had  no  reply  to  this  talk,  and  was  about  to 
leave  her  on  some  plea  of  necessity,  when  she  said,  "  I 
come  down  to  the  mill  a  purpose  to  ask  you  to  come 
to  supper  early  to-night,  for  we  are  going  to  have  some 
thing  real  good.  I  want,"  continued  Mrs.  Ruggles, 
"  that  you  should  feel  yourself  to  home  to  our  house,  be 
cause  you  have  always  had  a  mother  to  look  after  you, 
and  to  pervide  for  you,  and,  as  I  tell  Leonora,  it  is  my 
duty  to  be  a  mother  to  you,  and  to  make  you  feel  to 
home."  Mrs.  Ruggles  looked  in  Arthur's  face  with  a 
beaming  maternal  tenderness  that  must  have  won  Ar 
thur's  heart,  if  he  had  trusted  himself  to  look  at  her. 

"  Do  you  love  rye  flapjacks,  Arthur  1 "  inquired 
the  maternal  Ruggles,  "  rye  flapjacks,  baked  in  a  pile, 
with  the  butter  and  sugar  all  on  1 " 

Arthur  thought  he  did. 

"  How  much  that  is  like  Leonora,"  resumed  the 
voluble  woman.  "  Says  Leonora,  says  she  to  me,  '  I 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  133 

don't  believe  but  what  Arthur  Blague  loves  rye  flap 
jacks,  and  you  shall  have  some  for  supper  to-night,'  says 
she.  '  Arthur  shall  set  to  the  head  of  the  table,  but 
you  shall  cut  them  up,'  says  she  to  me,  '  for  when  you 
cut  them  up,  your  hand  is  so  fat,  and  the  cakes  is  so  fat, 
that  when  your  knife  comes  down  through,  and  hits  the 
plate,  it  sounds  good  and  hearty,  like  the  cluck  of  a 
hen.'  Says  I  to  Leonora,  i  It  isn't  because  my  hand  is 
fleshy  ;  it's  the  eggs  ;  the  cluck  is  in  the  eggs,  my  dear.' 
Oh  !  you  ought  to  have  heard  Leonora  laugh  when  I  said 
that.  Says  Leonora,  says  she  to  me,  '  Mother,  I  believe 
you'll  kill  me.'  How  hot  you  do  keep  it  here  !  "  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Ruggles,  wiping  her  face,  "  I'm  getting 
real  sweaty."  Then  she  rose  from  the  tea-chest,  which 
sprang  back  with  a  creak  of  relief,  and  giving  Arthur  a 
parting  injunction  to  "be  to  supper  in  season,"  she 
sailed  out  of  his  presence  and  out  of  the  mill  with  a 
grandeur  equal  to  her  gravity. 

Arthur  did  not  know  what  shape  the  torment  of  the 
evening  would  assume,  but  he  knew  very  well  what  its 
character  would  be ;  and  when  the  supper  hour  arrived, 
he  started  off  to  meet  the  maternal  yearnings  of  Mrs. 
Ruggles  in  any  thing  but  an  amiable  frame  of  mind. 
On  entering  the  half-kitchen,  half-parlor,  that  served  as 
the  Ruggles  dining-room,  he  found  Leonora  dressed 
more  elaborately  than  usual,  and  wearing  upon  her 
tame  and  tiresome  features  a  sad  and  injured  look,  that 
was  intended  to  be  very  touching. 

"  You  must  take  your  old  place  to  the  head  of  the 
table,  Arthur,  and  perside,"  said  the  hearty  hostess, 
overflowing  with  good-nature  and  hospitality.  She  had 
been  pent  up  within  herself  so  long  by  the  presence  of 


134:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

"  father,"  between  whom  and  herself  there  was  no  more 
communion  than  between  the  north  and  south  poles,  that 
it  was  a  great  treat  to  be  free.  Arthur  took  his  seat,  and 
Leonora  sat  down  at  his  right,  but  did  not  bestow  upon 
him  a  smile — not  even  a  look  of  gentle  patronage. 

"  Leonora,  dear,  what  makes  you  so  kind  of  down 
in  the  mouth  1 "  inquired  the  affectionate  mother. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  young  woman,  her  face  in 
flexibly  doleful. 

"  What  ails  you,  dear  ?     Don't  you  feel  well  1 " 

"  Feel  well  enough." 

"  Well,  well,  dear,  you  must  chirk  up,  or  you  won't 
enjoy  your  flapjacks." 

"Flapjacks ! ;>  exclaimed  Leonora  contemptuously,  a 
gust  of  annoyance  escaping  from  her  nostrils,  which 
were  always  open  for  the  delivery  of  her  miserable 
emotions. 

"  I  know,"  said  Leonora's  mother,  sympathetically, 
"  that  flapjacks  doesn't  cure  every  thing." 

Arthur  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  fancy  which 
sprang  in  his  mind  of  a  very  hot  flapjack  tied  over  Mrs. 
Ruggles'  mouth,  and  another  bound  upon  Miss  Ruggles' 
heart.  Miss  Ruggles  lifted  her  languid  eyes  in  time  to 
see  the  smile,  and  sighed. 

"  You  should  remember,  dear,"  suggested  the  mother, 
"  that  you  have  gentleman's  company  to-night,  and  that 
whatever  sufferings  you  have,  you  should  cover  up,  so's 
to  make  it  pleasant.  We're  making  company  of  Arthur 
to-night,  you  know,  and  you  musn't  look  on  him  as  a 
boarder.  I've  been  thinking  all  the  afternoon,  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  see  you  and  Arthur  eating  flap 
jacks  together." 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  135 

"  A  good  deal  Arthur  cares  for  us,  I  guess,"  said 
Miss  Ruggles,  taking  in  a  large  mouthful  of  the  unc 
tuous  staple  upon  her  plate. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  you  shall  not  talk  so,"  declared  the 
mother  very  emphatically  ;  "  it's  just  like  a  young  girl 
like  you  to  believe  all  the  stories  that's  told  you.  You 
shan't  go  down  to  Crampton  again,  and  get  your  head 
full  of  things  to  distress  you.  You  see,"  Mrs.  Euggles 
explained  to  Arthur,  "  Leonora  has  been  down  to 
Crampton  village,  and  she  heard  all  about  that  Ham- 
mett  girl's  being  to  your  mother's,  and  she  heard  it  was 
you  who  got  her  away  from  father's  mill,  and  what  else 
she  heard,  I  don't  know  ;  but  she  thinks  now  that  you 
don't  think  so  much  of  your  old  friends  as  you  used  to. 
'  Nonsense  ! '  says  I  to  Leonora.  *  Do  you  suppose  that 
Arthur  Blague  would  take  up  with  a  poor  creature  that 
he  don't  know  nothing  about,  and  that  there  don't  any 
body  know  nothing  about  ?  Nonsense,'  says  I." 

"It's  very  romantic,  mother,"  said  Miss  Ruggles, 
whose  spirits  were  improving.  "  She  might  be  a 
princess  in  disguise,  you  know." 

Arthur's  "  flapjacks  "  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  he  felt 
conscious  of  growing  angry.  He  would  not  trust  him 
self  to  speak. 

"  Leonora,"  said  Mrs.  Ruggles,  in  a  tone  of  repri 
mand,  "  you  are  letting  your  feelings  run  away  with  you. 
Arthur  Blague  is  a  sensible  young  man,  and  he  has  feel 
ings  ;  and  because  he  thinks  he's  called  upon  to  help  a 
poor  outcast  girl,  that  hasn't  any  friends,  and  is  a  sus 
picious  character,  and  wants  to  take  her  away  from 
temptations,  and  give  her  a  chance  to  get  along  in  the 


136 

world,  it  isn't  for  us  who's  more  favored,  to  pick  flaws 
with  him,  or  to  say,  Why  do  ye  do  so  ?" 

Human  nature,  as  it  existed  in  Arthur  Blague,  could 
stand  no  more.  "  Who  says  that  Mary  Hammett  is  a 
suspicious  character  ? "  said  he,  his  eyes  burning  with 
anger.  "  Who  dares  to  breathe  a  word  against  her  1 " 

Mrs.  Ruggles  giggled.  "  Now  you  look  handsome," 
said  she.  "  Look  at  him,  Leonora.  I  never  see  you 
when  you  was  mad  before.  I  said  to  Leonora  once, 
says  I,  '  Arthur  Blague  has  got  it  in  him,  you  may  de 
pend.  Them  eyes  of  his  wasn't  given  to  him  for  noth 
ing,'  says  I.  Have  some  more  flapjacks,  won't  you  ? 
Your  cup  is  out,  I  declare.  Why  didn't  you  pass  it  1 
Leonora,  you  should  have  seen  that  Arthur's  cup  is  out, 
you  know  my  eyes  is  feeble." 

Arthur  looked  her  steadily  in  the  face  till  she  had 
finished,  and  then  said  :  "  Mrs.  Ruggles,  the  woman  of 
whom  you  have  been  speaking  is  not  without  friends, 
and  will  not  want  a  friend  while  I  live  ;  and  I  will  not 
sit  anywhere  quietly  and  hear  her  spoken  against.  A 
woman's  good  name  is  not  a  thing  to  be  trifled  with, 
especially  by  a  woman ;  and  if  you  have  any  thing  to 
say  against  her,  I  will  leave  your  table." 

The  maternal  brain  was  puzzled,  but  the  maternal 
ingenuity  was  not  conquered.  "  It's  a  very  kind  thing 
in  you,  Arthur,  to  take  up  for  those  that  ain't  in  persi- 
tion  to  take  up  for  themselves.  If  there's  one  thing  that 
I've  always  stood  up  for,  it's  my  own  seek.  I  ought  to 
know,"  continued  Mrs.  Ruggles,  "  how  easy  it  is  to  say 
things,  and  how  hard  it  is  to  prove  it ;  but  don't  you 
think  that  this  Hammett  girl  is — well,  I  don't  mean  but 
what  it's  all  right,  you  know — but  don't  you  think  she 


AN   AMEEICAN   STOEY.  137 

is  kind  of  artful  ?  They  say  Dr.  Gilbert  is  quite  took 
up  with  her,  and  that  folks  think  she  wouldn't  have  any 
objections  to  being  his  second  wife." 

"  I  say  I  will  not  hear  Miss  Hammett  abused,"  said 
Arthur,  rising  from  the  table  in  uncontrollable  excite 
ment.  "  She  is  a  noble  woman,  and  no  decent  man, 
young  or  old,  can  help  admiring  and  respecting  her. 
There  is  not  a  woman  in  Hucklebury  Eun,  or  in  all 
Crampton,  who  is  her  equal,  and  if  you  have  any  thing 
more  to  say  against  her,  I  will  leave  the  room." 

Leonora  heard  the  young  man's  declaration,  and, 
rising  from  the  table,  bounced  out  of  the  room.  The 
maternal  Ruggles  watched  her  as  she  retired,  with  fond 
and  painful  solicitude.  Then  spreading  her  handker 
chief  over  her  fat  palm,  she  put  it  to  her  eyes,  and  ex 
claimed:  "You  have  broke  her  heart;  Arthur,  you've 
broke  her  heart." 

"  Whose  heart  1 "  inquired  Arthur. 

"  Oh !  no  matter  now,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Ruggles.  "  This 
is  the  thanks  we  get  for  helping  poor  folks,  and  making 
much  of  them  that  can't  appreciate  what's  done  for 
them.  But  the  world  is  full  of  disappointments.  Little 
did  I  think,  when  I  took  you  in,  that  I  was  ruining  the 
peace  of  my  own  heart's  blood." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1  What  under  heaven  are 
you  talking  about?  "  said  Arthur  excitedly. 

"  Oh !  no  matter  now !  It's  too  late,"  continued  Mrs. 
Ruggles,  holding  her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes  with 
one  hand,  and  attending  to  her  nose  with  the  other. 
"  Go  on,  ruining  hopes,  and — and — scattering  firebrands. 
It's  woman's  lot,  but  I  did  hope  that  my  own  flesh  and 
blood  would  be  spared." 


138  MISS  GILBEET'S  CAKEER: 

"If  you  mean  to  say  or  intimate,"  said  Arthur, 
"  that  I  have  ever,  by  thought,  word,  or  deed,  intended 
to  make  your  daughter  believe  that  I  love  her,  or  wish 
to  marry  her,  or  that  she  has  any  legitimate  expectation 
that  I  shall  marry  her,  you  are  very  much  mistaken ; 
for  I  do  not  love  her,  never  did  love  her,  and  I  never 
will  love  her." 

"  Oh !  that's  always  the  way,  when  peace  is  gone  and 
the  heart  is  broke  !  "  sobbed  Mrs.  Ruggles. 

"  Mrs.  Ruggles,"  said  Arthur,  losing  all  patience,  "  I 
wish  you  to  understand  that  I  consider  you  and  your 
daughter  a  pair  of  fools,  and  that  I  always  considered 
you  so." 

On  the  announcement  of  this  very  decided  and  very 
uncomplimentary  opinion,  the  young  woman  whose 
heart  was  broken  and  whose  peace  was  ruined  reap 
peared,  having  previously  so  far  compromised  her  de 
termination  to  retire  to  her  room  as  to  stop  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  the  dining-room  door,  and  listen  at  the 
keyhole. 

"Pretty  talk  before  ladies,  Mr.  Arthur  Blague,  I 
should  think,"  said  Miss  Euggles,  resuming  her  seat  at 
the  table. 

"  These  is  Crampton  manners,  I  expect,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Ruggles  sarcastically,  forgetting  about  her  eyes, 
and  dropping  her  handkerchief  in  her  lap.  "  O  my 
dear  !  we've  had  such  an  escape — such  an  escape  !  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  wish  Miss  Hammett  much  joy,"  said 
Miss  Ruggles  tartly. 

"  Help  yourself  to  more  flapjacks,  dear,"  urged  the 
mother,  "  and  finish  out  your  supper.  We  s'posed  we 
had  a  gentleman  to  the  table,  didn't  we,  dear  1  But 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  139 

we  s'posed  wrong,  for  once.  Some  folks  is  brung  up 
perlite,  and  some  isn't,  and  them  that  isn't  we  must 
make  allowances  for." 

Then  Leonora  giggled,  and  the  mother  giggled,  and 
grew  amazingly — almost  alarmingly — merry.  Arthur 
looked  at  them  in  quiet  contempt,  and  rapidly  deter 
mined  upon  the  course  it  was  best  for  him  to  pursue. 
He  knew  that  he  had  been  hasty,  but  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  that  he  should  not  repeat  the  same 
indiscretion  under  the  same  circumstances. 

"  I  bid  you  good  night,"  said  Arthur,  when  the 
laughter  of  the  mother  and  daughter  had  subsided  suffi 
ciently  to  allow  him  to  be  heard.  "  I  presume  it 
will  not  be  your  wish  that  I  remain  longer  in  your 
house,  and  I  will  look  out  for  other  lodgings  to 
night." 

"  Suit  yourself,  and  you'll  suit  me,"  responded  the 
old  woman.  "  The  quicker  you  and  your  duds  are  out 
of  this  house,  the  better  I  shall  feel.  Young  men  that 
takes  factory  girls  out  of  the  mill,  and  keeps  them  to 
his  home,  don't  make  this  house  any  safer  when  the 
head  of  the  family  is  gone  abroad." 

The  idea  of  being  dangerous  society  for  Mrs.  Rug- 
gles  and  her  daughter  was  so  ludicrous  to  Arthur,  that 
he  could  not  help  smiling,  and  turning  on  his  heel,  he 
took  his  hat,  and  without  more  words  went  to  the  mill. 
His  first  business  was  to  find  Cheek,  and  to  reveal  to 
him  the  necessities  of  his  condition.  Cheek  scratched 
his  head  with  great  perplexity.  "  We  can  feed  any 
quantity  of  people  at  the  boarding-house,  but  we  can't 
sleep  'em,"  said  Cheek.  "  I  sleep,"  continued  he,  "  with 
Bob  Mullaly,  the  Irishman,  and  if  I  can  only  get  him  to 


140 

take  to  his  old  hammock  under  the  roof  again,  you  can 
sleep  with  me." 

This  Bob  Mullaly  was  an  old  sailor,  and  by  no 
means  an  unpopular  item  of  the  population  of  Huckle- 
bury  Run.  He  told  yarns  to  the  boys,  every  one  of 
which  they  believed,  and  was  always  trying  to  deceive 
himself  with  the  idea  that  he  was  on  board  ship.  His 
brief  mornings  he  spent  in  splicing  ropes.  Sundays  he 
devoted  to  weaving  hammocks,  whenever  he  could  pro 
vide  himself  with  the  necessary  twine.  Occasionally,  a 
window  of  the  mill  directly  over  the  pond  would  be 
raised,  and  out  would  fly  a  bucket  at  a  rope's  end, 
which  would  very  certainly  go  straight  into  the  water, 
and  dip  itself  full,  and  then  Bob  Mullaly  would  haul  it 
in  as  if  he  were  leaning  over  a  ship's  side,  and  were 
dipping  from  the  sea.  He  sang  sea-songs  in  the  minor 
key,  and  with  a  very  husky  voice,  all  day,  while  at  his 
work. 

"  We've  been  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  old  cock  this 
ever  so  long,"  said  Cheek,  "and  this  is  a  first-rate 
chance,  because  he  likes  you,  and  will  be  glad  to  do  you 
a  good  turn." 

"  Oh !  I  won't  deprive  Bob  of  his  bed,"  said  Arthur. 

"  He  might  just  as  well  sleep  in  a  hammock,"  said 
Cheek,  "  such  sleeping  as  he  does,  as  not.  Pie's  al 
ways  agrunting,  and  agroaning,  and  chawing,  and  spit 
ting,  and  gritting  his  teeth,  and  snoring.  Lord  !  you'd 
think  he  was  fighting,  and  dying,  and  eating  his  dinner 
all  at  once.  I'd  jest  as  soon  sleep  with  a  highpoppy- 
taymus.  You  don't  know  any  thing  about  it,"  con 
tinued  Cheek.  "  You  wouldn't  sleep  any  for  three 
nights  if  he  was  within  ten  feet  of  you.  Oh !  I  tell 


AN"   AMERICAN   STORY. 

you,  he  has  the  nightmare,  and  the  nighthorse,  and  half 
a  dozen  colts,  and  a  yellow  dog  sometimes." 

Under  this  representation  of  Bob  Mullaly's  terrific 
nocturnal  habits,  Arthur  consented  that  Cheek  should 
apply  to  the  old  salt  for  the  desired  favor.  Accord 
ingly,  that  young  man  sought  him  out  in  his  room,  and 
succeeded  very  speedily  in  his  object.  Arthur  then  re 
turned  to  the  Ruggles  mansion,  entered  the  door,  and 
was  surprised  to  find  awaiting  him  in  the  passage,  his 
valise,  packed  and  locked,  and  ready  for  transportation. 
Leonora  was  not  visible,  but  Mrs.  Ruggles  met  him, 
candle  in  hand,  and  told  him  she  "  wasn't  going  to  have 
him  running  all  over  her  house."  "  Your  things  is  all 
in  the  portmanter,  there,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  and 
all  I've  got  to  say  is,  good  riddance  to  bad  rubbidge  !  " 

Having  finished  her  happily  limited  speech,  and  Ar 
thur  having  taken  the  valise  in  his  hand,  she  turned,  and 
left  him  to  find  his  way  out  in  the  dark  and  alone.  As 
the  young  man  left  the  house,  he  heard  mother  and 
daughter  laughing  loudly,  and  thought  that,  for  women 
whose  hearts  had  been  so  terribly  dealt  with,  they  were 
very  merry  indeed. 

Leaving  his  valise  in  the  mill  until  the  close  of  the 
labors  of  the  evening,  Arthur  resumed  his  duties,  which 
he  continued  long  after  the  bell  had  dismissed  the  oper 
atives.  Cheek  came,  and  sat  quietly  -down  near  his 
desk  to  wait  for  him,  and  introduce  him  to  the  lodging- 
rooms  of  the  mill.  As  Arthur  closed  the  ledger,  and 
wiped  his  pen,  Cheek  said :  "  Blague,  you  musn't  expect 
any  thing  very  grand  now.  I  stand  it  well  enough,  be 
cause  I'm  used  to  it ;  but  you  have  been  in  another  line, 
you  know.  You  haven't  slept  in  an  ash-hole  to  keep 


142  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEER: 

away  from  old  Bob  Lampson,  and  been  tucked  in  with 
a  pair  of  tongs,  as  I  have." 

Arthur  said  that  he  thought  he  could  live  as  other 
people  did,  if  he  should  try  ;  and  taking  down  his  hat, 
and  taking  up  his  valise,  he  announced  himself  ready  for 
bed.  They  went  out  of  the  mill,  leaving  the  watchman 
making  his  ceaseless  round  of  the  rooms,  and  crossed  a 
spongy  patch  of  garden  to  reach  the  lodging-room. 
The  building  which  contained  this  room  was  constructed 
originally  for  a  wood-shed.  It  was  narrow  in  propor 
tion  to  its  length,  and  all  the  lower  portion  was  open  to 
wind  and  weather.  The  necessities  of  the  boarding- 
'  house  had  induced  the  proprietor  to  construct  and  finish 
off,  in  a  rough  way,  a  hall  running  the  entire  length  of 
the  shed,  with  a  room  at  one  end  as  a  general  depository 
of  trunks  and  clothing.  Into  this  hall  as  many  beds 
were  crowded  as  it  could  contain,  and  at  the  same  time 
allow  the  lodgers  sufficient  room  to  dress  in.  In  the 
winter,  the  carpetless  floor  gave  free  passage  upward  to 
the  wind  that  swept  through  the  open  wood-shed  be 
neath  ;  and  in  the  summer,  the  hot  roof  imparted  to  the 
atmosphere  a  stifling  power,  that  rendered  sleep  well 
nigh  impossible,  while  the  idea  of  ventilation  was  lost 
sight  of  entirely. 

Arthur  and  Cheek  entered  the  wood-shed,  and 
climbed  the  dark  stairway.  On  entering  the  hall,  they 
found  a  few  dim  lamps  burning,  and  the  atmosphere 
pervaded  by  the  stench  of  unclean  breath  and  unclean 
clothing.  Sitting  on  his  trunk,  surrounded  by  half  a 
dozen  boys,  one  foul-mouthed  fellow  was  singing  an  ob 
scene  song.  Another  was  en  the  floor,  near  the  stove, 
greasing  his  boots.  Others,  still,  were  already  in  bed, 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  143 

cursing  those  who  would  not  permit  them  to  sleep. 
Old  men  of  sixty,  and  boys  of  almost  tender  years, 
were  crowded  into  this  dirty  hole,  where  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  privacy,  or  personal  decency,  possible. 
All  heard  the  same  foul  songs,  all  listened  to  the  same 
obscene  stories,  all  alike  were  deprived  of  the  privilege 
of  reading  and  meditation ;  nay,  of  prayer  itself,  had 
such  a  privilege  been  desired.  It  was  a  place  where 
health  of  body  and  of  mind  was  impossible,  and  where 
morals  would  inevitably  rot.  Arthur  thought  again,  as 
he  had  many  times  before,  of  old  Ruggles'  boast — "  We 
are  all  alike  down  to  the  Run  ;  "  and  he  comprehended, 
as  he  had  never  done  before,  how  the  levelling  process 
had  been  accomplished. 

As  Arthur  spoke  to  one  and  another  in  a  cordial 
and  respectful  way,  the  confusion  subsided  by  degrees, 
and  a  new  sense  of  decency  and  dignity  seemed  to  find 
its  way  into  the  hearts  of  all.  Perceiving  that  he 
wished  to  retire,  all  suddenly  concluded  that  it  was 
time  to  go  to  bed ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  motley 
crowd  were  stretched  upon  their  hard  and  dirty  lodg 
ings.  Arthur  noticed  that,  as  Cheek  lay  down,  he  took 
a  position  directly  upon  the  outer  rail  of  the  bedstead, 
leaving  to  his  new  bedfellow  nearly  the  entirs  bed. 
Arthur  expostulated,  but  Cheek  declared  that  he  always 
slept  so,  and  could  never  close  his  eyes  in  the  world  if 
he  were  obliged  to  do  it  in  the  middle  of  a  bed.  If 
Arthur  liked  the  middle  of  a  bed,  he  had  better  take  it. 
If  he  could  have  his  way,  he  would  never  have  a  bed 
more  than  nine  inches  wide,  and  he  would  be  willing  to 
bet  any  reasonable  amount  of  money  that  he  could 
sleep  on  the  ridge-pole  of  the  building  without  rolling 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

off.  Arthur  read  the  good  fellow's  motives,  and  was, 
on  the  whole,  too  weary  to  refuse  to  indulge  him  in 
self-sacrifice. 

There  were  too  many  weary  bodies  and  restless 
dreams  in  the  hall  that  night  to  allow  an  unaccustomed 
lodger  more  than  a  few  disturbed  and  unrefreshing 
snatches  of  sleep.  Bob  Mullaly,  swung  up  in  his  ham 
mock  between  the  wall  of  the  room  and  the  eaves  of 
the  building,  had  a  great  sea-fight  that  night,  in  which 
not  only  immense  navies  were  engaged,  but,  judging 
from  the  sounds  which  found  their  way  through  the 
wall,  a  large  number  of  sea-monsters  took  part. 

The  night  was  a  long  one  to  Arthur ;  but,  before 
a  particle  of  daylight  made  its  appearance,  the  first 
morning  bell  was  rung  by  the  watchman.  Everybody 
seemed  to  awake  angry  ;  they  cursed  the  bell,  and  cursed 
the -watchman  who  rang  it;  but  still  it  rang,  persist 
ently,  tormentingly,  outrageously,  until  it  became  im 
possible  to  sleep  another  moment.  One  after  another 
tumbled  out  of  bed.  Little  boys  that  slept  like  logs 
were  shaken  violently  by  the  men,  or  pulled  bodily  out 
upon  the  floor  and  set  upon  their  feet.  Arthur  lay  and 
watched  them  for  a  time,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lamps. 
Half  a  dozen  boys  near  him  dressed  themselves  without 
opening  their  eyes,  and  went  stumbling,  dirty,  and  un- 
refreshed,  out  of  the  room  to  their  places  in  the  mill. 

"  Sich  is  life ! "  exclaimed  Cheek  with  a  comical 
sigh,  as  he  turned  and  shook  Arthur's  shoulder. 

"  God  pity  those  who  cannot  take  it  easily,  like  you, 
Cheek,"  said  Arthur. 

Cheek's  toilet  was  very  quickly  made ;  and,  as  the 
second  bell  was  ringing,  he  left  Arthur  to  dress  at  his 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  14:5 

leisure.  The  young  man  was  at  last  alone,  and  full  of 
the  thoughts  which  such  a  night's  experience  was  calcu. 
lated  to  excite  in  such  a  nature  as  his.  Here  was  a 
little  world  of  misery,  set  off  from  the  consciousness  of 
the  great  world  around  it,  without  a  redeeming  or  puri 
fying  element  in  it.  There  was  no  hope — no  expecta 
tion  of  any  thing  better.  It  only  sought  for  the  lowest 
grade  of  enjoyments;  it  had  no  emulations  ;  it  pursued 
no  object  higher  than  the  attainment  of  food  to  eat,  and 
clothes  to  wear  ;  it  was  ruled  by  an  exacting  will,  and 
kept  in  essential  slavery  by  the  fear  of  the  loss  of  a 
livelihood.  Then  he  thought  of  his  own  misfortunes  and 
hardships,  and  thanked  God  for  showing  him  how 
greatly  above  the  lot  of  multitudes  of  men  he  had  been 
blest.  He  thanked  Him  also  for  enlarging  the  field  of 
his  sympathies,  and  for  giving  him  an  intimation, 
through  the  pity  inspired  by  his  contemplations,  of  that 
divinely  tender  consideration  which  the  Good  Father 
bestows  upon  the  outcast  and  the  oppressed,  the  igno 
rant  and  the  degraded,  wherever  human  souls  look  out 
from  human  eyes. 

Arthur  Blague  was  getting  his  education,  and  we 
will  leave  him  for  a  while. 


14:6  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREEK:" 


CHAPTEE   IX. 

MISS    GILBERT   COMPLETES  HEE    NOVEL — A   GEEAT    SUCCESS,   IN 
THE   OPINION   OF  HEE  FEIENDS. 

THE  snow  had  passed  away,  and  Spring,  shy-faced, 
and  shivering  under  sheltered  rocks,  had  breathed  the 
sweet  arbutus  into  bloom,  and  sky-born  bluebirds 
came  down  on  the  air  of  wondrous  mornings,  with 
throats  full  of  fresh  and  fragrant  melody.  The  days  grew 
still  and  long.  On  the  hills  around  the  village  of 
Crampton,  the  sugar-fires  were  smoking;  and  in  the 
yards  of  the  quiet  dwellings  the  sturdy  chopper's  axe 
was  swung  all  day  long  above  the  winter-gathered  piles. 
Sounds  came  from  a  great  way  off,  startling  the  univer 
sal  stillness.  Dogs  basked  all  day  on  southern  door 
steps,  and  cattle,  turned  out  from  dark  stalls,  tried  horns 
and  heads  with  each  other,  or  frisked  in  ungraceful, 
elephantine  play.  There  was  a  sound  in  the  earth,  as  if 
myriad  fairies  were  at  work  preparing  juices  for  the 
grass  and  fruits  and  flowers — a  sound  of  tiny  footsteps 
and  multitudinous  bells,  deep  down  in  caverns  and  din 
gles  ;  and  here  and  there  a  bank  smiled  back  in  downy 
green  the  sun's  first  radiant  favors. 


AN  AMERICAN   STOEY.  147 

On  one  of  these  beautiful  spring  days,  Miss  Fanny 
Gilbert,  grown  weary  and  thin  with  her  hard  winter's 
labor,  sat  in  her  room, 'giving  the  finishing  touches  to 
her  novel.  It  had  been  a  task  of  far  greater  magnitude 
than  she  had  anticipated.  Oftentimes  she  had  been 
quite  discouraged.  Animated  by  no  purpose  but  to 
win  popular  applause,  the  day  of  repayment  for  all  her 
self-denial  and  labor  seemed  so  far  distant,  that  not  un- 
frequently  she  felt  tempted  to  throw  her  manuscript  in 
to  the  fire.  Had  she  been  at  work  for  money,  or  had 
she  been  animated  by  a  desire  to  accomplish  some  great 
reform,  or  had  she  been  engaged  in  doing  some  work  of 
duty,  as  one  of  God's  willing  laborers,  then  she  might 
have  been  content.  But  always  the  eye  of  the  public 
was  upon  her.  What  will  the  critics  think  of  this  ? 
What  will  the  world  think  of  this  1  What  shall  be  the 
reward,  in  popular  praise,  for  all  this  tax  upon  the  heart 
and  brain,  and  all  this  toil  of  hand  1  These  were  the 
questions  that  were  always  before  her.  Frequently  her 
pen  dropped  from  her  fingers,  and  her  imagination  flew 
away  like  a  bee  to  nestle  among  the  flowers  and  suck 
the  honey  that  were  not  yet  hers. 

Dr.  Gilbert  had  been  too  decided  in  his  opposition 
to  Fanny's  project,  to  betray  any  anxiety  to  make  him 
self  acquainted  with  its  progress ;  yet  he  was  very  cu 
rious  to  see  the  new  book,  or  to  hear  it  read.  It  had 
been  enough  for  Aunt-  Catharine  that  the  doctor  op 
posed  his  daughter  to  secure  her  sympathy  for  the 
young  authoress,  and  as  Fanny  felt  praise  to  be  abso 
lutely  necessary  to  her,  she  had  read  every  chapter  to 
her  aunt,  and  had  been  very  much  inspired  by  the  good 
woman's  comments.  Aunt  Catharine  said  there  was  a 


148 

great  deal  more  love  in  it  than  she  cared  any  thing 
about,  but  it  was  "  real  good,  every  bit  of  it."  Fanny 
had  not  a  very  high  regard  for  her  aunt's  literary  judg 
ment,  but  she  got  the  praise,  and  the  praise  answered 
its  purpose. 

Fanny  laid  aside  her  manuscript,  and  raised  the 
window  of  her  room,  upon  which  the  sun  shone  warmly, 
and  looked  upon  the  scene.  Her  weary  brain  and  heart 
sought  for  refreshment.  She  remembered  the  springs 
that  had  come  and  gone  during  her  childhood  and  girl 
hood,  recalled  the  golden  time  when  a  perfect  spring-day 
flooded  all  her  sensibilities  with  sunshine,  and  crowded 
her  heart  to  overflowing  with  a  sweet,  exultant  joy.  She 
recalled  the  pervasive  spirit  of  poetry  that  informed  and 
enveloped  the  rudest  objects,  warmed  by  the  sun  of 
spring,  and  longed,  in  forgetfulness  of  self  and  of  care, 
to  bathe  her  heart  in  it  once  more.  Oh !  for  the  fresh, 
innocent,  careless  gladness  in  existence  that  had  once 
held  its  honeyed  centre  in  her  soul ! 

She  looked  out,  saw  the  sun  and  the  deep  blue  sky, 
heard  the  carol  of  the  bluebird,  marked  the  smoke 
slowly  curling  up  from  the  sugar-groves,  listened  to  the 
awaking  murmurs  of  the  season,  watched  the  uncouth 
gambols  of  the  rude  forms  of  life  in  the  farm-yard;  but 
the  old  joy  would  not  come  back  to  her.  Her  heart 
seemed  dry  and  dead — only  living  in  an  unsatisfied 
yearning.  Her  sensibilities,  kept  tense  through  the  long 
winter,  and  overwrought  among  scenes  of  fictitious  joy 
and  woe,  refused  to  respond  to  the  simple  influences  of 
nature.  There  was  no  spring  for  her.  She  had  stood 
so  long  in  a  false  attitude  with  relation  to  a  true,  nat 
ural  life,  and  had  labored  so  long  in  obedience  to  an 


AN    AMERICAN    STORY.  149 

illegitimate  motive,  that  nature  could  find  no  open  pas 
sage  to  her  soul — no  responsive  chamber  within  it. 

It  was  noon.  Across  the  common,  the  door  of  the 
old  school-house  opened,  and  forth  poured  a  chattering 
throng  of  boys  and  girls.  They  seemed  like  so  many 
senseless  dolts  to  her.  Their  noise  annoyed — almost 
disgusted  her.  She  preferred,  after  all,  her  own  insen 
sitive  isolation  to  joy  that  had  no  meaning  in  it,  and 
pleasure  that  could  not  reason  of  itself.  Soon  the  form 
of  Mary  Hammett  made  its  appearance.  She  passed 
through  the  group,  and  every  eye  seemed  to  turn  to  her 
in  love.  With  a  calm  step,  looking  up  and  around,  and 
apparently  drinking  in  with  fulness  of  delight  the  influ 
ences  of  the  day,  she  crossed  the  common  and  entered 
the  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Blague.  Fanny  watched  for  her 
appearance  at  her  window,  separated  from  her  own  by 
two  or  three  patches  of  garden.  Miss  Hammett  entered 
her  room,  raised  her  window,  looked  out  without  seeing 
her  friend,  and  then  turned  back.  But  Fanny  could  not 
keep  her  eyes  from  the  window  of  her  neighbor,  whom, 
in  one  or  two  interviews,  she  had  learned  to  respect 
profoundly.  At  length  she  caught  the  sound  of  a  low 
song,  rising  and  falling  in  Miss  Hammett's  room ;  and 
then  there  burst  out,  sweet  and  clear  as  the  notes  of  the 
bluebird  on  the  elm  that  drooped  over  the  house,  the 
words : 

"  Thou  art,  0  God !  the  life  and  light 

Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see  ; 
Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 

Are  but  reflections  caught  from  Thee." 

Ah !  yes.    Fanny's  heart  was  greedy  for  the  praise  of 
men — thirsting  for  the  adoration  of  the  world — and  it 


150  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK  : 

was  dry.  Her  neighbor's  heart  was  overflowing  with 
adoration  and  praise  of  the  paternal  fountain  of  her  life, 
and  it  was  as  fresh  as  if  it  were  beaded  with  the  dew  of 
childhood.  For  the  moment,  the  massive  manuscript 
upon  her  table  looked  utterly  meaningless  and  worth 
less  to  her.  Had  the  paper  been  blank,  it  would  have 
seemed  of  higher  value.  She  recalled  her  mother's  pious 
counsels,  her  neglect  of  her  own  higher  duties,  and  then 
she  closed  her  window  and  wept.  How  happy  are 
those,  thought  Miss  Gilbert,  who  have  no  ambition, 
who  have  never  tasted  the  world's  praise,  and  do  not  feel 
moved  to  great  achievements  to  secure  it !  Would 
God  she  were  like  others  !  The  womanly  nature  was, 
for  the  moment,  predominant  within  her,  and  she  longed 
for  sympathy — longed  to  pour  out  her  heart  to  Mary 
Hammett. 

If  Miss  Hammett  would  hear  her  book,  and  advise 
her,  would  it  not  be  well  1  She  would  go  and  see  her. 
But  if  the  young  woman  should  not  like  her  book,  and 
should  tell  her  so,  how  would  she  receive  the  criticism  ? 
Her  whole  nature,  she  felt,  would  revolt  against  the  ad 
verse  judgment  at  once.  If  Miss  Hammett  should  be 
pleased,  it  would  be  very  well ;  if  displeased,  she  would 
turn  upon  her  heel  and  rely  upon  herself. 

Nightfall  came,  and  with  it  the  close  of  Miss  Ham- 
mett's  school  for  the  day.  When  Fanny  saw  the  teacher 
enter  Mrs.  Blague's  dwelling,  she  threw  a  shawl  upon 
her  shoulders,  and  walked  over  to  call  upon  her.  Miss 
Hammett  invited  Fanny  to  her  room,  and  after  a 
brief  conversation  the  latter  said :  "  Miss  Hammett,  I 
have  been  doing  a  very  foolish  and  a  very  indiscreet 
thing." 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  151 

"The  first,  I  presume,  in  your  life,"  said  Miss 
Hammett  with  a  smile ;  "  but  confession  half-atones  for 
it." 

"  You  cannot  guess  what  it  is." 

"  I  am  a  very  indifferent  guesser,"  said  Miss  Ham 
mett.  "  You  are  not  engaged  1 " 

"  No,"  and  Miss  Gilbert  laughed  almost  derisively. 

"  You  haven't  kissed  the  cat  1 " 

"  No." 

"  Nor  your  father  1 " 

"  No,"  and  then  Miss  Gilbert  laughed  merrily. 

"  You  see  I  can  never  guess,"  said  Miss  Hammett, 
"  and  you  may  as  well  tell  me  at  once." 

"  I  have  written  a  book." 

Miss  Hammett  held  up  both  hands  in  astonishment, 
that  had  quite  as  much  of  the  genuine  as  of  the  fictitious 
in  it.  "  There  is  only  one  thing  worse  than  this  that  I 
know  of,"  said  she,  and  shook  her  head  with  mock  serious 
ness. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  inquired  Fanny. 

"  To  publish  it." 

Fanny's  eye  flashed,  the  color  mounted  to  her  fore 
head,  her  lip  quivered,  and  her  tongue  refused  its  office. 
Miss  Hammett  was  on  her  knees  in  a  moment,  and 
throwing  her  arms  tenderly  around  Fanny's  waist,  ex 
claimed  :  "  Dear !  dear !  what  have  I  done "?  Tell  me, 
Miss  Gilbert — have  I  offended  you  ?  Have  I  wounded 
you  ? " 

Ah  !  how  the  woman  in  Fanny  melted  before  this 
delicate  demonstration  !  She  bowed  her  head  on  Miss 
Hammett's  shoulder,  and  there  in  a  precious  embrace 
she  poured  out  her  heart,  revealing  all  her  hopes,  am- 


152 

bitions,  expectations.  When  it  was  all  over,  both  rose 
to  their  feet,  and,  with  their  arms  around  each  other, 
paced  back  and  forth  in  the  apartment.  Miss  Hammett, 
whose  quick  sensibility  and  insight  had  enabled  her  to 
read  her  companion's  heart  at  once,  was  pained.  "  We 
are  very  different  to  each  other,"  said  she.  "  To  me, 
the  idea  of  making  my  name  public  property — of  per 
mitting  it  to  go  abroad  as  an  author,  subject  to  criti 
cism,  and  to  unjust  and  frivolous  judgments — the 
thought  of  being  talked  about  in  private  parlors  and 
public  places,  and  of  coining  my  heart's  best  emotions 
and  my  sweetest  imaginations  into  words  which  the 
world  can  use  as  a  glass  by  which  it  may  read  my  life, 
is  very  terrible.  If  I  could  write  books,  I  might  possi 
bly  do  so ;  but  I  could  only  be  induced  to  allow  them 
to  be  published  by  the  assurance  that  I  should  never  be 
known  as  their  author." 

"And  have  you  no  desire  to  be  admired,  to  be  loved, 
to  be  praised  by  the  world  1 "  inquired  Miss  Gilbert 
warmly. 

"  By  my  world,  yes ; "  and  Miss  Hammett's  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  "Miss  Gilbert,  the  time  will  come 
when  even  one  soul  will  be  more  than  all  the  world  to 
you — when  you  would  give  all  the  praises  of  the  world's 
thousand  millions — when  you  would  give  the  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  if  they  were  yours,  to  monopolize  the  admi 
ration,  the  love,  and  the  praise  of  one  man.  A  woman's 
true  world  is  a  very  small  world  in  its  dimensions,  yet 
it  is  the  heart's  universe.  The  great  world  is  fickle,  and 
must  be  so.  It  lifts  its  idols  to  their  pedestals,  and 
worships  them  for  an  hour ;  then  it  kicks  them  off,  and 
grinds  them  into  ruin,  that  other  and  fresher  objects 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  153 

of  worship  may  take  their  places.  Besides,  a  woman 
cannot  be  content  to  be  a  sharer.  She  claims  monop 
oly,  and,  in  the  richest  world  she  ever  knows,  she  has 
it." 

Fanny  made  no  immediate  response,  and  the  pair 
walked  back  and  forth  in  silence  for  a  minute.  At 
length  she  said :  "  And  has  fame  positively  no  charms 
for  you  1  Do  you  never  envy  those  kings  and  queens 
in  the  realm  of  intellect,  who  walk,  in  the  sight  of  the 
people,  with  crowns  upon  their  heads  ?  " 

"  Envy  them,  Miss  Gilbert  ?  I  pity  them — rather, 
perhaps,  I  am  grateful  that  God  did  not  impose  upon 
me  their  responsibilities,  their  labors,  their  isolation, 
and  their  sad  temptations  to  envy  each  other.  I  have 
no  experience  to  inform  me,  and  no  direct  testimony 
from  the  experience  of  those  I  have  known ;  but  my 
heart  tells  me  that  the  sweetest  reward  of  great  achieve 
ments  is  the  excitement  to  a  tenderer  love,  and  a  more 
thorough  devotion  of  the  one  heart  and  the  little  circle 
of  hearts  with  which  the  author  holds  direct  personal 
communion.  A  great  man,  without  a  loving  heart  at 
his  side,  or  a  circle  of  loving  hearts  around  him,  must, 
it  seems  to  me,  have  a  love  for  all  mankind,  such  as 
only  a  great  Christian  heart  can  know,  to  keep  him  from 
committing  suicide.  My  heart  tells  me,  too,  that  we 
can  only  find  reward  in  working  for  those  we  love.  A 
woman,  working  for  the  world's  praise,  will  always 
have  to  measure  the  satisfaction  she  finds  in  that  praise 
by  the  same  cup  that  holds  her  love.  How  much  do 
you  love  the  world,  Miss  Fanny  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — I  haven't  thought — it  is  all  new  to 
7* 


154  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

me,"  replied  Fanny,  convinced  for  the  moment  of  her 
selfishness. 

"  Now,"  said  Miss  Hammett,  kissing  her  companion, 
"  I  will  stop  preaching.  I  am  sure  I  did  not  mean  to 
let  my  tongue  run  on  so.  But  you  shall  preach  to  me 
now.  Do  me  the  favor  to  read  your  book  to  me,  will 
you  ?  It  will  be  delightful  employment  for  half  a  dozen 
evenings." 

"  I  came  here  on  purpose  to  ask  you  to  hear  me  read 
it,"  replied  Fanny. 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Fanny,  "  I  am  entirely  sel 
fish.  I  wish  to  have  you  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it, 
and  to  suggest  alterations  where  you  see  opportunities 
for  improvement." 

"  Ah  !  Miss  Gilbert,  I'm  afraid,"  replied  Miss  Ham 
mett,  shaking  her  head,  and  looking  pleasantly  into 
Fanny's  eyes.  "  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Really,  now,"  said  Fanny  earnestly,  "  I  want  your 
opinion  of  my  book,  and  I  promise  to  be  reasonable, 
arid  tractable,  and  patient." 

"  I  can  deny  you  no  service,"  replied  Miss  Ham 
mett,  "  but  if  I  engage  to  criticize  your  book,  I  cannot 
enjoy  it.  Criticism  and  enjoyment  never  go  hand  in 
hand.  If  I  had  undertaken  to  criticize  even  this  beauti 
ful  morning,  it  would  have  shut  out  all  the  joy  it 
brought  me.  So  you  see  that  I  am  very  selfish,  too." 

"  You  do  not  decline  ?  "  said  Fanny. 

"  No,  I  do  not  decline,  but  you  must  promise  me 
some  things  first.  You  must  promise  to  regard  me  as 
an  elder  sister — one  who  loves  you,  and  has  a  real  in 
terest  in  your  happiness  and  your  success — as  one 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  155 

whose  pain  it  would  be  to  pain  you — as  one  whose  love 
and  truth  to  you  can  only  be  vindicated  in  a  matter  like 
this  by  the  most  thorough  faithfulness.  Further  than 
this,  you  shall  promise  that  whatever  may  be  the  result 
of  our  interviews  over  your  book,  it  shall  never  inter 
fere  with  our  friendship." 

"  I  promise — in  token  of  which  I  hereby —  "  the  act 
took  the  place  of  the  word,  the  act  being  performed 
by  organs  that  could  not  speak  and  kiss  at  the  same 
time. 

So  Fanny  promised  that  after  tea  she  would  bring 
in  her  book,  and  begin  the  task  agreed  upon.  As  she 
left  the  door  of  Mrs.  Blague,  she  felt  that  she  had  been 
shorn  of  some  very  comfortable  delusions.  She  had 
caught  a  pretty  distinct  glimpse  of  her  own  heart,  and 
of  the  worthless  nature  of  its  ruling  motives.  Her 
book,  that  had  looked  so  large  to  her,  and  had  seemed 
to  fill  so  much  of  the  world,  had  become  almost  con 
temptible.  She  was  about  to  commit  it  to  the  critical 
eye  of  the  village  schoolmistress — lately  a  factory-girl 
— at  most,  a  very  insignificant  portion  of  that  great 
public  for  which  the  book  was  written ;  yet  her  heart 
sank  within  her.  Miss  Hammett  loved  her,  and  would 
be  kind,  yet  she  shrank  from  her  judgment.  How 
would  she  fare  with  the  great  world  that  did  not  love 
her,  and  would  not  be  kind  ? 

The  story  of  the  subsequent  interviews  between 
the  authoress  and  her  gentle  critic  would  be  tedious, 
and  needs  not  to  be  told.  With  the  tact  of  a  truly  kind 
heart,  Miss  Hammett  praised  the  excellencies  of  the 
book,  and  pointed  out  its  defects.  When  alone,  Fanny 
often  quarrelled  with  the  judgment  that  had  been  ren- 


156 

dered — rebelled  against  it — but  ended  by  adopting  it, 
and  profiting  by  it.  Many  pages  she  rewrote  entirely, 
but  her  self-love  was  grievously  wounded  during  the 
process,  and  it  was  only  by  the  severest  self-discipline 
that  she  was  kept  from  entertaining  bitter  and  unworthy 
thoughts  of.  the  kind  wroman  who  had  humiliated  her. 
It  was  not  pleasant  to  think  that  the  book  was  better 
for  Miss  Hammett's  ministry.  It  was  not  agreeable  to 
remember  that  her  own  good  judgment  had  been  called 
in  question,  and  that  she  had  been  obliged,  as  a  rational 
woman,  to  yield  the  point. 

But  there  was  another  ordeal,  lying  between  Miss 
Hammett  and  the  public.  Her  father  had  not  heard  the 
book  read,  and  she  knew  that  he  would  not  allow  it  to 
be  published  until  he  should  become  acquainted  with  its 
contents  in  some  way.  Though  shaken  by  the  argu 
ments  and  the  sentiments  of  the  schoolmistress,  she  had 
never  for  a  moment  relinquished  the  idea  of  publication. 
Her  overweening  desire  for  public  applause  had  slept  at 
intervals,  but  it  had  only  slept  to  awake  with  new  vigor. 
As  she  passed  out  from  Miss  Hammett's  immediate 
personal  influence,  the  old  dream  of  fame  and  a  career 
filled  her  and  enveloped  her. 

She  was  shrewd  enough,  and  knew  enough  of  her 
father's  character,  to  detect  the  real  gratification  he  felt, 
when,  with  assumed  coolness,  he  received  the  announce 
ment  that  her  book  was  concluded.  It  belonged  to  a 
class  of  books,  he  said,  that  he  never  read,  and  he  felt 
himself  incompetent,  in-  many  respects,  to  judge  of  its 
merits.  Would  it  not  be  well  to  invite  in  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wilton  ?  Both  were  people  of  taste  and  culture,  and 
he  should  rely  much  upon  their  judgment. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY*.  157 

Fanny  declared  herself  ready  for  any  arrangement, 
and  the  doctor  walked  over  to  the  parsonage,  and  talked 
up  the  matter  with  the  good  pastor  and  his  wife.  They 
were  ready  for  the  proposition  of  the  doctor.  They  al 
ways  were  ready  for  any  proposition  of  the  doctor.  He 
ruled  the  parish,  and  they  had  a  profound  respect  for 
him,  partly  from  that  fact,  and  partly  from  the  fact  that 
he  was  honestly  worthy  of  it. 

Fanny  approached  this  ordeal  without  a  particle  of 
trepidation.  Miss  Hammett  had  helped  her  to  a  more 
just  appreciation  of  her  book  than  she  had  before  pos 
sessed.  She  knew  where  it  was  strong,  and  she  felt, 
furthermore,  that  those  who  would  listen  to  her  were 
more  in  sympathy  with  the  motive  which  actuated  her 
than  Miss  Hammett  had  been.  The  evening  for  the 
reading  was  set,  and,  at  the  appointed  hour,  Miss  Fanny 
Gilbert  had  her  audience  about  her.  Aunt  Catharine, 
who  had  heard  it  all  piecemeal,  wished  to  hear  it  entire, 
and  was  in  her  seat.  Fanny  began,  and  as,  occasion 
ally,  she  looked  out  upon  her  auditors,  the  eager  look, 
the  expression  of  undisguised  interest,  filled  her  with 
proud  satisfaction.  Mr.  Wilton  gave  frequent  excla 
mations  of  delight,  and  the  reader  gathered  new  excite 
ment  with  every  page.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  cheeks 
glowed,  her  voice  grew  round  and  full  and  flexible,  and 
her  audience  looked  on  and  listened  in  astonishment. 
Dr.  Gilbert,  as  he  became  aware  of  the  impression  pro 
duced  upon  the  others,  forgot  his  resolution  to  be  cool 
and  reserved,  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  his  gratifica 
tion.  Mr.  Wilton  was  amazed.  Mrs.  Wilton  was 
overwhelmed.  The  voice  of  the  reader  flowed  on  and 
on,  never  faltering,  never  pausing.  The  little  clock 


158 

with  its  tiny  bell  struck  the  hours,  but  no  one  heard 
it.  "  Eight — nine — ten — eleven — twelve —  "  articulated 
with  silver  sound  the  silvery-sounding  revelation ;  and 
then  the  last  page  was  tossed  from  Miss  Gilbert's 
hands.  Mrs.  Wilton  threw  her  arms  around  Fanny's 
neck,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  Mr.  Wilton,  in 
spired  about  equally  with  the  book  and  the  pretty  scene 
enacted  between  his  wife  and  Fanny,  jumped  to  his  feet, 
and  clapped  his  hands  wildly.  Ah,  Dr.  Gilbert !  Dr. 
Gilbert !  Why  can  you  not  sit  still  ?  What  are  you 
doing  ?  Shaking  hands  with  Aunt  Catharine,  and  laugh 
ing  like  a  madman,  to  keep  yourself  from  crying  !  Ah, 
Dr.  Gilbert !  what  a  fool ! 

And  what  did  Fanny  do  ?  What  did  Fanny  say  ? 
Nothing,  but  she  thought  this :  "  If  I  could  only  get 
the  ear  of  the  world  as  I  have  got  the  ears  of  these  !  If 
I  could  only  get  the  praise  of  the  world  as  I  get  the 
praise  of  these !  "  The  evening's  triumph  was  only 
significant  to  her  as  an  earnest  of  a  prouder  triumph  to 
come,  and  an  assurance  of  the  co-operation  of  her  father 
in  her  schemes.  She  received  his  congratulations 
amiably,  but  in  that  queenly  kind  of  way  which  showed 
that  she  regarded  them  as  her  right,  rendered  to  her  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

"  It's  getting  rather  late,"  said  the  doctor,  pulling 
out  his  watch  and  winding  it,  "  but  you  would  oblige  us 
very  much,  Mr.  Wilton,  by  advising  us  with  relation  to 
a  publisher/' 

Fanny  smiled  at  her  father's  ready  assumption  of 
partnership,  and  recalled  the  scene  in  which  he  played 
"so  different  a  part  in  the  early  history  of  her  enterprise  ; 
but  she  said  nothing,  while  Mr.  Wilton  rubbed  the  spot 


AN  AMEEICAN   STOEY.  159 

on  his  head  where  he  had  apparently  laid  aside  a  list  of 
publishers,  and  prepared  his  opinion  of  their  respective 
merits. 

"  There's  the  great  house  of  the  Kilgores,"  suggested 
Mr.  Wilton.  They  have  a  larger  list  of  publications,  and 
a  larger  correspondence,  than  any  other  house  in  the 
country. 

Dr.  Gilbert  frowned,  and  drummed  on  the  arms  of 
his  chair.  "  Is  it  not  possible,"  said  he,  "  that,  in  con 
sequence  of  such  a  range  of  business,  they  wrould  fail 
to  give  to  the  work  that  degree  of  consideration  which 
our  interest,  not  to  say  any  thing  of  its  merits,  de 
mands  ?  " 

"  Possibly,"  responded  the  pastor,  adding,  "  then 
there  is  the  enterprising  house  of  Kapp  &  Demigh. 
They  are  famous,  you  know,  for  advertising  freely,  and 
pushing  things.  I  should  say  the  Kilgores,  if  you  can 
get  them,  and  Kapp  &  Demigh  if -the  Kilgores  decline 
— an  event  which,  I  confess,  does  not  seem  very  likely 
to  take  place." 

"  I  have  no  fears,"  said  Fanny  proudly,  "  if  they  will 
read  the  book." 

"  I'm  sure  you  need  not  have  any,  my  dear,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Wilton  warmly. 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  had  better  write  to  both,"  said 
the  doctor,  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  of  the  eye,  "  and  if 
they  should  both  want  the  book,  it  may  help  us  to  get 
more  favorable  terms." 

So  it  was  settled,  and  the  Wiltons  took  their  leave. 
The  doctor  then  advanced  to  the  table,  and  copied  into 
his  note-book  the  name  of  the  volume  which  he  had  de 
cided  to  offer  through  the  mail  to  the  great  publishing 


160 

firms  of  Kilgore  Brothers,  and  Kapp  &  Demigh,  and 
this  was  the  record  : 


TEISTEAM    TREVANIOlST; 

OK, 

THE  HOUNDS  OF  THE  WHIPPOORWILL  HILLS: 


BY   EVERARD   EVEREST,    GENT. 

"  Why  do  you  choose  the  name  of  a  gentleman  for 
your  nom  de  plume,  Fanny  ?  "  inquired  the  doctor, 
spelling  over  the  name  slowly,  to  see  if  he  had  got  it 
right. 

"  Oh  !  a  fancy,"  replied  Fanny  languidly.  "  Besides, 
it  seems  to  me  to  be  written  in  a  masculine  style." 

"But  I  —  I  should  think  you  would  like  to  have 
your  own  name  associated  with  the  book,"  suggested 
the  doctor. 

"  If  it  should  prove  to  be  a  success,"  replied  Fanny, 
"  there  are  ways  enough,  I  suppose,  for  securing  such  an 
association.  Meantime,  a  little  mystery  will  hurt  noth 
ing,  and  may  help  a  great  deal." 

The  doctor,  wholly  unsophisticated  in  matters  of 
authorship,  did  not  see  through  the  whole  of  his  daugh 
ter's  plan,  but  he  saw  that  she  had  a  plan  with  which 
she  was  satisfied,  and  thought  best  to  trust  her.  Fanny 
gathered  up  her  manuscript,  and  bidding  her  father 
"  good  night,"  retired  to  her  room. 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  161 

It  was  impossible,  of  course,  for  Dr.  Gilbert  to  go  to 
bed  with  wrork  undone,  that  it  was  possible  to  do.  So 
he  took  his  pen,  and  addressed  to  the  great  publishing 
house  of  the  Kilgores  in  New  York  the  following  letter, 
a  duplicate  of  which  he  also  wrote  and  addressed  to 
Messrs.  Kapp  &  Demigh  : 

"  GENTLEMEN  : — Will  you  allow  me  to  call  your  at 
tention  to  a  novel,  just  completed  by  my  daughter, 
Miss  Fanny  Gilbert,  entitled,  '  Tristram  Trevanion, 
or,  The  Hounds  of  the  Whippoorwill  Hills,  by  Everard 
Everest,  Gent.  1 '  I  am  not,  perhaps,  a  reliable  judge 
of  its  merits.  Paternal  partiality  and  exclusive  devo 
tion  to  scientific  and  business  pursits  may,  in  a  degree, 
unfit  me  to  decide  upon  the  position  in  the  world  of  art 
and  the  world  of  popular  favor  it  is  calculated  to 
achieve.  In  fact,  I  have  not  relied  upon  my  own  judg 
ment  at  all.  The  book  has  been  read  to  competent  lit 
erary  friends,  and  their  voice  is  unanimous  and  most 
enthusiastic  in  its  favor.  The  impression  is  that  it  can 
not  fail  to  be  a  great  success.  With  your  practical  eyes, 
you  will  recognize,  I  doubt  not,  in  the  title  of  the  book, 
the  characteristic  poetic  instincts  of  the  writer,  and  her 
power  to  clothe  her  conceptions  in  choicest  language. 
We  have  concluded  to  offer  this  book  to  your  cele 
brated  house  for  publication.  It  is  our  desire  that  it 
may  come  before  the  public  under  the  most  favorable 
auspices — such,  in  fact,  as  your  imprint  alone  would 
give  it.  I  think  I  can  promise  you  the  undivided  sup 
port  of  the  local  press,  as  I  certainly  will  pledge  all 
the  personal  efforts  on  behalf  of  the  volume  which  my 
relations  to  the  writer  will  permit  me  to  make.  I 


162  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAUEEK: 

may  say  to  you,  in  this  connection,  that  I  have  a  large 
medical  practice,  extending  throughout  the  region,  and 
that  I  know  nearly  every  family  in  the  county.  Please 
reply  at  once,  and  oblige,  &c.,  &c. 

"  THEOPHILUS  GILBERT,  M.  D. 

"  P.  S. — How  shall  we  send  the  manuscript  to  you  ? 

"T.  G." 

Dr.  Gilbert  re-read  his  twin  epistles  carefully,  folded 
and  sealed  them,  and  went  to  bed. 


orf 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  163 


CHAPTEE    X. 

DE.    GILBEET  AMONG  THE  NEW   YORK  PUBLISHERS. 

IT  seemed  an  age  to  Dr.  Gilbert  and  his  daughter 
before  the  responses  from  the  New  York  publishers 
reached  the  Crampton  post-office.  When,  at  last,  both 
letters  were  delivered  at  the  wicket,  the  doctor  con 
fessed  to  himself  a  greater  degree  of  excitement  than  he 
had  felt  for  many  a  day.  As  he  walked  home  with  them 
in  his  pocket,  he  busied  himself  with  framing  an  apology 
to  Kapp  &  Demigh  for  giving  the  book  to  the  Kilgores, 
for  he  could  hardly  doubt  that  both  had  accepted  his 
proposition.  "  I've  got  something  for  you,  Fanny," 
said  he,  as  he  entered  the  house.  Fanny  followed  him 
into  his  office,  and  took  a  seat.  Then  the  doctor  broke 
the  seal  of  one  of  the  letters,  unfolded  it,  and  read : 

«  DR.  G. : 

"  DR.  SIR — Yours  about  book  Tristram,  &c.,  rec'd. 
Novels  except  by  well-known  writers  not  in  our  line, 
and  we  must  decline. 

"  Permit  us  to  call  yr  attention  to  catalogue  of  pro 
fessional  books  wh  we  mail  with  this.  Shall  be  happy 
to  fill  any  orders.  Yours  respectfully, 

"  KILGORE  BROTHERS, 

"  pr  EUDDOCK." 


164 

"  Impertinent  cub  !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  as  he 
finished  this  brief  and  business-like  production,  his  face 
swollen  with  sudden  wrath.  "  You  may  depend  upon 
it,  Fanny,"  said  he,  without  venturing  to  look  in  her 
face,  "  that  not  one  of  the  Kilgores  has  ever  seen  my 
letter — not  one — no,  not  one.  This  understrapper, 
Haddock,  or  Hemlock,  or  Ruddock,  or  whatever  his 
name  is,  has  not  only  replied  on  his  own  responsibility, 
but  has  had  the  impudence  to  stick  his  catalogue  in  my 
face." 

While  the  doctor  was  excitedly  delivering  himself 
of  these  words,  his  daughter  sat  perfectly  silent,  with 
cheeks  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  a  heart  that  thumped  so 
violently  against  its  walls,  that  her  whole  frame  was 
shocked  by  it.  He  sat  for  a  minute,  and  looked  at  the 
letter  of  Kapp  &  Demigh,  hardly  daring  to  take  it  up. 
At  length  he  opened  it,  and  read  it  silently.  Fanny 
watched  him,  and  assured  herself  that  its  contents  were 
no  more  favorable  than  those  of  its  predecessor. 

"  We  are  disappointed  here  again,  Fanny,"  said  the 
doctor  with  a  mollified  tone,  "  but  these  fellows  are 
gentlemen,  and  attend  to  their  own  business.  Will  you 
hear  it  ?  " 

Fanny  said,  "  Of  course,"  and  her  father  read  : 

"  To  DR.  THEOPHILUS  GILBERT  : 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR — Your  favor,  relating  to  the  manu 
script  novel  of  your  daughter,  is  at  hand,  and  has  been 
carefully  considered.  The  title  of  the  book  seems  to  us  to 
be  exceedingly  attractive,  and,  in  a  favorable  condition  of 
the  market,  could  not  fail  of  itself  to  sell  an  entire  edi 
tion.  Unfortunately,  the  market  for  novels  is  very  dull 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  165 

now,  and,  still  more  unfortunately  for  us,  our  engage 
ments  are  already  so  numerous,  that  were  the  market 
the  best,  we  should  not  feel  at  liberty  to  undertake 
your  book.  We  could  not  possibly  make  room  for  it 
and  do  it  justice.  Thanking  you  for  your  kind  prefer 
ence  of  our  house,  we  remain,  Yours  faithfully, 

"  KAPP  &  DEMIGH. 
«  p.  S.— Have  you  tried  Ballou  &  Gold?  " 

Father  and  daughter  sat  for  some  time  in  reflective 
disappointment,  but  neither  was  discouraged.  It  was 
not  the  habit  of  Dr.  Gilbert  to  undertake  an  enterprise 
and  fail  of  carrying  it  through ;  but  he  comprehended 
the  fact,  at  once,  that  he  could  do  nothing  by  mail.  The 
process  was  too  slow  and  indirect.  He  must  attend  to 
the  matter  personally.  He  must  go  to  New  York. 

Fanny  had  great  respect  for  her  father's  personal 
power  and  efficiency,  and  received  the  announcement 
With  evident  satisfaction.  The  preliminary  arrange 
ments  for  the  journey  were  entered  upon  by  both  with 
much  spirit.  Fanny,  with  unusual  readiness,  took  upon 
herself  the  preparation  of  her  father's  wardrobe,  while 
he  and  the  little  black  pony  busily  attended  to  such  af 
fairs  as  were  necessary  to  be  looked  after  out  of  doors. 
It  was  quite  an  event  in  the  history  of  Crampton — this 
departure  of  everybody's  family  physician,  and  his  in 
definite  period  of  absence.  The  postmaster  had  duly 
reported  to  the  villagers  the  arrival  of  the  two  impor 
tant-looking  letters,  and  they  had  found  it  very  difficult 
to  decide  whether  he  had  been  summoned  to  some  great 
case  in  consultation,  or  whether  he  had  been  invited  to 
a  chair  in  one  of  the  medical  colleges.  As  father  and 


166  HISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

daughter  kept  their  own  counsels  on  the  subject,  the 
question  was  open  for  discussion  during  his  entire  ab 
sence.  All  agreed  that  Dr.  Gilbert  was  a  man  who 
knew  what  he  was  about,  and  had  a  distinct  com 
prehension  of  the  side  upon  which  his  bread  was  but 
tered. 

The  day  set  for  his  departure  came  at  length,  and 
the  little  Crampton  mail-coach  started  out  from  the  little 
Crampton  tavern  for  the  doctor's  door,  and  the  little 
driver  blew  his  little  horn  to  inform  the  doctor  that  it 
was  time  for  him  and  his  baggage  to  be  ready.  The 
coach  came  up  to  the  gate  with  a  pretentious  crack  of 
the  whip,  and  a  rate  of  speed  which  the  reputation  of 
the  establishment  upon  the  road  did  not  at  all  warrant. 
In  fact,  the  doctor  found  that  the  fiery  little  pair  of 
horses  that  made  the  coach  rattle  so  merrily  about 
Crampton,  underwent  a  serious  change  of  character  im 
mediately  after  leaving  the  village. 

The  Crampton  line  of  public  travel  and  mail  car 
riage  was  only  one  of  the  many  tributaries  to  the  great 
trunk  lines  that  traversed  the  Connecticut  valley  from 
the  northernmost  point  to  the  commencement  of  steam 
navigation  at  Hartford ;  and  it  was  not  until  late  in 
the  afternoon  that  the  Crampton  basket  was  emptied 
into  the  trunk-line  bin  that  came  along  behind  six  smok 
ing  horses,  covered  with  passengers,  and  piled  with  bag 
gage.  The  doctor  was  obliged  to  take  an  outside  seat. 
It  was  an  unwelcome  shock  to  the  gentleman's  dignity, 
and  as  he  was  a  heavy  man,  the  seat  was  reached  by  an 
outlay  of  physical  exertion  that  cost  some  temper  and 
more  breath.  His  state  of  mind  was  not  improved  by 
the  stimulus  supplied  to  his  efforts  by  an  irreverent 


AN  AMEEICAN   STORY.  167 

young  man  in  sea  costume,  who  reached  down  his  hand, 
and  shouted,  "  Now,  old  feller  !  Yo-heave,  O  !  " 

The  stage-coach  started  off  with  a  fresh  team  at  a 
smashing  speed,  and  the  doctor  felt  that  he  was  getting 
into  the  whirl  of  the  great  world.  There  was  something 
in  the  thought  that  exhilarated  him.  Floating  along  in 
one  of  the  arteries  of  business  life,  it  seemed  to  Dr.  Gil 
bert,  as  a  business  man,  a  very  splendid  thing  ;  but  his 
satisfaction  was  marred  by  the  fact  that  the  broader  the 
stream  of  life  grew  along  which,  and  into  which,  he  was 
gliding,  the  smaller  grew  Dr.  Gilbert.  Out  of  Crampton, 
the  great  man  of  Crampton  was  of  no  more  account  than 
anybody. 

At  the  next  grand  station  of  the  route,  the  passen 
gers  had  accumulated  in  such  numbers  that  another 
coach  was  put  on,  and  the  doctor  was  favored  with  an 
inside  seat.  He  left  Greenfield  at  nightfall,  the  coach 
plunging  down  the  hill  upon  which  the  town  stands  at 
what  he  thought  to  be  a  dangerous  rate  of  speed,  rattling 
over  Deerfield  River  bridge,  and  sweeping  along  the 
skirts  of  the  Deerfield  meadows.  It  was  a  glorious 
evening,  and  the  fresh  phase  of  life  which  it  presented 
to  our  Crampton  passenger  would  have  been  refreshing 
beyond  expression,  if  the  burden  of  care  which  he  had 
taken  on  could  have  been  lifted.  As  he  realized,  more 
and  more,  the  great  and  clashing  interests  of  the  world, 
the  little  bundle  of  manuscript  in  his  trunk  seemed  to 
lose  its  importance.  What  would  this  great  world  care 
for  a  country  physician  ?  What,  particularly,  would  it 
care  for  the  productions  of  a  country  physician's  daugh 
ter1? 

At  Bloody  Brook,  the  passengers  took  a  late  supper, 


168 

connected  with  which  the  only  thing  that  Dr.  Gilbert 
remembered  was  a  picture  in  the  dining-room,  of  the 
celebrated  massacre  from  which  the  village  had  derived 
its  name.  Some  very  stiff-looking  people,  whom  he  had 
read  of  as  "  The  Flower  of  Essex,"  were  represented  as 
picking  grapes  upon  very  high  trees,  and  receiving 
deadly  arrows  from  very  low  Indians,  who  seemed  to 
have  grown  among  the  bushes.  He  entered  North 
ampton  and  a  dream  about  the  same  time,  and  left  both 
without  any  distinct  notions  of  their  respective  charac 
teristics.  Half-sleeping,  half- waking,  and  uniformly  un 
easy  and  uncomfortable,  he  passed  the  night,  and  the 
towns  through  which  his  course  lay,  and  came  in  sight 
of  the  spires  of  Hartford  just  as  a  brilliant  sun  was 
rising  into  a  cloudless  sky. 

Here  the  stream  of  life  wras  swelling  again,  and 
again  Dr.  Gilbert's  proportions,  as  a  man  of  mark  and 
importance,  consciously  shrank.  The  coach  rolled  in 
upon  the  paved  streets,  and  even  at  that  early  hour 
found  many  astir.  Hackney-coaches  were  actively 
pushing  about,  collecting  passengers  for  the  New  York 
boat.  Loads  of  stores  and  light  freight  were  pressing 
to  the  river  bank,  where  lay  the  splendid  steamer  Bun 
ker  Hill.  The  coach  which  bore  him  and  his  fellow- 
passengers  was  only  one  of  a  dozen  that  came  in  and 
deposited  their  passengers  and  luggage.  Everybody 
was  in  a  hurry.  A  score  of  stevedores  and  deck  hands 
were  trundling  boxes  and  barrels  on  board.  Black 
porters  were  dodging  here  and  there,  collecting  baggage, 
of  which  they  proposed  to  take  the  charge  for  a  consid 
eration.  The  bell  of  the  Bunker  Hill  introduced  its 
tongue  among  the  Babel  voices  of  the  hour.  The  hurry 


AN  AMEPJCAN   STOKY.  169 

every  moment  increased.  Men  came  running  down 
the  street  with  umbrellas  and  satchels  under  their 
arms,  and  rushed  on  board  as  if  life  depended  on  their 
crossing  the  plank  ten  minutes  before  the  steamer 
swung  off. 

Of  much  of  this  active  life  the  doctor  was  a  quiet 
observer  from  the  upper  deck  of  the  Bunker  Hill.  The 
great  man  of  Crampton  had  at  this  time  come  to  be  ex 
ceedingly  insignificant.  He  saw  elderly,  portly,  digni 
fied  gentlemen  come  on  board,  attended  by  ladies  of 
stylish  appointments  and  a  demonstrative  air  of  high 
breeding,  all  smacking  of  a  loftier  grade  of  life  than  he 
had  been  accustomed  to.  He  could  not  help  acknowl 
edging  to  himself  that  Dr.  Theophilus  Gilbert  of  Cramp- 
ton,  accompanied  by  his  accomplished  daughter,  the 
authoress  of  "  Tristram  Trevanion,"  would  make,  any 
where,  a  less  impressive  figure.  Then  the  question 
again  occurred  to  him — "  What  does  all  this  world  of 
life,  full  of  high  enterprises,  grand  pursuits,  headlong 
business,  and  unresting  competitions,  care  for  the  off 
spring  of  a  country  girl's  brain  ?  What  possible  rela 
tion  has  the  book  which  stirred  such  enthusiasm  in  the 
Crampton  pastor  and  his  wife  to  the  life  that  I  see  be 
fore  me  ?  "  The  doctor  grew  timid.  The  doctor  was 
actually  frightened.  He  wished  that  Fanny  Gilbert's 
"  career  "  had  taken  another  direction,  and  that  Fanny 
Gilbert's  father  had  been  less  a  fool. 

At  length  the  bell  of  the  Bunker  Hill  began  to  toll, 
and  then  a  dingy  mulatto,  in  dingy  satinet,  went  back 
and  forth  in  the  boat,  warning  with  a  professional  twang 
all  those  to  "  go  ashore  that's  going,"  and  ringing  a 
hand-bell  to  attract  attention  to  his  message.  The 
8 


ITO 

wheels  began  to  move,  the  last  straggler  crossed  the 
plank,  the  lines  were  cast  off,  and  the  boat  wheeled  into 
the  stream,  and  was  soon  under  full  headway. 

Dr.  Gilbert's  quick,  observant  eyes  had  scanned 
every  passenger  he  met.  He  was  alone,  bound  to  a 
great  city,  which,  though  a  man  of  experience,  he  had 
never  seen.  He  longed  for  companionship.  Among 
those  who  had  most  impressed  him  was  a  tall  gentle 
man  of  middle  age,  in  spectacles.  He  seemed  to  be 
alone,  and  had  the  appearance  of  being  a  literary  man, 
just  the  kind  of  man  whose  acquaintance  he  would  like 
to  make.  This  solitary  gentleman  soon  came  to  mo 
nopolize  all  the  doctor's  attention.  He  had  an  air  of 
profound  reflection;  and  when  he  made  remark  upon 
the  scenery  to  any  person  near  whom  he  might  be 
standing,  it  was  always  accompanied  by  some  new  and 
striking  attitude,  and  by  a  gesture  of  the  hands  at  once 
so  graceful  and  natural,  that  the  doctor  concluded  that 
he  must  be  some  great  public  speaker. 

The  gentleman  seemed  to  be  aware  that  he  had  at. 
tracted  the  doctor's  eye,  and  came  up  and  took  a  posi, 
tion  near  him,  with  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his 
waistcoat,  his  left  foot  finely  thrown  out  in  advance,  and 
his  eye  evidently  drinking  in  the  beauties  of  the  scene. 

"  This  seems  to  be  a  fine  country,"  suggested  the 
doctor. 

"  Rich,  sir,  rich  in  all  the  elements  of  fertility,  and, 
as  a  poetic  friend  of  mine  would  say,  redolent  of  sweets," 
responded  the  gentleman. 

The  doctor  was  struck  by  the  language,  and  hardly 
knew  how  to  continue  conversation.  The  tones  of  the 
gentleman's  voice  were  deep  and  rich,  and  the  gentle- 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  171 

man  himself  seemed  to  rejoice  in  them.  He  did  not 
change  his  position;  so  the  doctor  said:  "We  have 
quite  a  large  company  on  board  to-day." 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes,"  responded  the  stranger. 

"  Many  very  interesting-looking  people." 

"  Yes,  to  me  the  human  face  divine  is  the  most  in 
teresting  vision  of  nature.  I  turn  from  fields  to  faces, 
as  I  turn  from  earth  to  heaven." 

The  doctor  was  almost  stunned.  At  length  he  ven 
tured  the  suggestion  that  the  boat  seemed  to  be  a  very 
fine  one,  and  a  great  improvement  upon  the  stage-coach. 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes,"  responded  the  stranger  with  mag 
nificent  emphasis  ;  "  fit  emblem  of  human  life,  bearing 
us  down  to  the  bosom  of  the  mighty  ocean." 

Having  delivered  himself,  the  stranger  turned  and 
moved  grandly  away,  but  Dr.  Gilbert  had  no  intention 
of  parting  with  him  thus.  So  he  resolved  that  he  would 
not  lose  sight  of  him,  and  followed  him  at  a  distance. 
He  saw  him  engaged  with  another  passenger,  and  went 
up  behind  him.  The  fresh  interlocutor  was  overheard 
to  remark  upon  the  filthy  condition  of  a  landing  they 
were  passing. 

"  Rich,  sir,  rich,"  responded  the  magnificent  stran 
ger,  "  in  all  the  elements  of  fertility,  and,  as  a  poetic 
friend  of  mine  would  say,  not  redolent  of  sweets." 

"  You  are  hard  on  'em,"  said  the  astonished  fellow, 
with  a  peculiar  smile. 

"  I  hate  towns,"  said  his  highness.  "  I  turn  from 
towns  to  faces  as  I  turn  from  earth  to  heaven." 

"  Well !  you'll  find  faces  enough  on  the  boat  here, 
I  should  think,"  said  the  fellow. 

"  Aye,  the  boat !  the  boat !    fit  emblem  of  human 


172 

life,  bearing  us  down  to  the  bosom  of  the  mighty 
ocean." 

Having  redelivered  himself  of  these  splendid  sen 
tences,  the  stranger  turned  gracefully  away,  leaving  his 
companion  puzzled  and  dumb.  The  latter  caught  the 
eye  of  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  came  up  to  him  with  the  in 
quiry,  "  Know  that  feller  ?  " 

The  doctor  replied  that  he  did  not,  but  would  like 
to  find  him  out. 

"  He  is  rather  numerous,  ain't  he  ?  "  responded  the 
man. 

Dr.  Gilbert,  preferring  magniloquence  to  slang, 
turned  away  still  unsatisfied,  and  determined  to  see 
more  of  the  man  who  had  interested  him  so  much. 
Keeping  at  a  decent  distance  from  him,  he  heard  him 
for  a  half  an  hour  ringing  his  changes  on  the  beauty  of 
the  human  face  divine,  the  richness  of  nature  in  all  the 
elements  of  fertility,  and  the  steamer  Bunker  Hill  as  a 
fit  emblem  of  human  life,  bearing  him  and  the  rest  of 
the  company  down  to  the  bosom  of  the  mighty  ocean. 
Then  the  bell  of  the  steamer  rang,  and  the  boat  ran  in 
and  threw  out  her  lines  at  the  Middletown  landing.  A 
number  of  passengers  came  on,  and  a  number  debarked. 
Among  the  latter,  much  to  the  doctor's  surprise,  was 
the  stranger  with  the  spectacles,  carrying  in  one  hand  a 
diminutive  carpet-bag,  and  in  tlv  other  a  little  oblong 
case,  that  looked  very  much  as  if  it  contained  a  violin. 

"  Found  out  who  that  feller  is,"  said  a  voice  in  the 
doctor's  ear — the  voice  of  the  man  who  thought  the 
stranger  so  "  numerous." 

"  Ah  !  "  responded  the  doctor.     «  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Well,  he's  a  rovin'  singin'-master,  by  the  name  of 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  173 

Peebles,"  replied  the  man ;  and  then  added,  "  they  call 
him  the  pasteboard  man  round  here.  You  see  he  thinks 
he's  a  man,  but  he's  nothing  but  pasteboard.  He  sort 
o'  stands  round,  and  spreads,  and  lets  off  all  the  big 
talk  he  hears.  Ain't  he  rather  numerous,  though  1 " 

"  I  have  never  been  so  disappointed  in  a  man  in  my 
life,"  responded  the  doctor,  with  equal  gravity  and  ear 
nestness. 

"  You  come  from  up  country,  I  guess,"  said  the 
man,  taking  in  a  fresh  quid  of  tobacco.  "  That  wasn't 
the  only  pasteboard  man  on  this  boat,  by  a  long  chalk." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? "  inquired  the  doctor, 
suspecting  that  the  fellow  was  quizzing  him. 

"  Well,  see  that  old  feller  with  the  gals  there  ?  " 

"  The  old  gentleman  with  an  eye-glass  1     Yes." 

"  Take  him  for  a  member  of  Congress,  wouldn't 
you  ?  " 

"  I  confess,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  that  it  had  oc 
curred  to  me  that  he  might  be  in  public  position." 

"  Well  he  does  look  numerous,  that's  a  fact ;  but 
he  keeps  tavern,  and  spells  breakfast  b-r-e-c-k,  breck, 
f-i-r-s-t,  first,  breckfirst.  Fact — saw  it  on  a  bill.  Lots 
of  'em  all  round  here  in  the  same  way.  I  come  from  up 
country  myself,  and  I  s'pose  I  know  how  all  these  slick 
fellers  look  to  you,  but  three-quarters  of  'em  are  paste 
board,  jest  like  Peebles.  Now  you  don't  know  it,  but 
you  are  the  most  sensible-looking  old  cove  there  is  on 
this  boat,  and  these  pasteboard  fellers  know  it,  too. 
Goin'  to  New  York  1 " 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  New  York,"  replied  the  doc 
tor,  ignoring  the  compliment. 

"  Where  do  you  put  up  V 


MISS  GILBERTS  CAKEER: 

"  I  have  not  determined." 

"  Lucky,"  responded  the  man,  drawing  a  card  from 
his  pocket.  "  That's  the  house  for  you — City  Hotel.  I 
always  stop  there — right  in  the  centre.  You  may  keep 
that  card  if  you  are  a  mind  to.  It's  one  I  brought 
away,  but  I  know  the  street." 

The  doctor  received  the  card  gratefully,  and  the  ac 
commodating  fellow  turned  away,  and  was  soon  busy 
in  conversation  with  a  group  of  countrymen,  to  each  of 
whom  he  handed  a  card,  that  looked  very  much  like  the 
one  which  the  doctor  put  in  his  pocket. 

Dr.  Gilbert  began  to  open  his  eyes.  He  was  not 
so  insignificant  a  man  after  all.  Very  much  encour 
aged,  he  began  to  make  conversation  with  one  and 
another,  and  before  the  day  expired,  he  had  established 
friendly  relations  with  quite  an  extensive  circle  of  men 
and  women,  with  whom  he  discussed  politics,  religion, 
education,  and  all  the  leading  subjects  of  general  inter 
est,  proving  himself  to  be  quite  the  equal  of  the  most 
intelligent  of  the  company. 

The  long  day  wore  away,  and  nightfall  found  the 
gallant  steamer  ploughing  the  waters  of  the  Sound.  It 
was  not  until  midnight  that  the  lights  of  the  great  city 
showed  themselves,  and  the  boat,  with  its  freight  of  life, 
ran  in  among  a  forest  of  masts,  and  was  made  fast  to 
the  wharf.  The  doctor  was  anxious.  He  had  secured 
his  trunk,  and  stood  firmly  by  it  while  beset  by  the 
crowd  of  importunate  hackmen.  At  length  his  ac 
quaintance  of  the  card  appeared,  and  calling  to  a  rough- 
looking  fellow,  said :  "  This  gentleman  goes  up  to  the 
house."  Then,  slipping  his  arm  through  that  of  the 
doctor,  and  ordering  the  porter  to  carry  out  his  trunk, 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  175 

he  conducted  him  to  the  City  Hotel  carriage,  already 
full  and  piled  with  baggage,  and  managed  to  get  him  in. 

The  doctor  awoke  the  next  morning  with  a  dull, 
heavy  roar  sounding  in  his  ears,  and  then  rose  and 
looked  abroad  from  his  high  window  upon  housetops 
and  chimneys,  and  busy  streets  and  sidewalks,  thronged 
with  early  passengers  going  to  their  daily  employments. 
The  vision  was  a  novel  one,  and  would  have  been  very 
agreeable,  had  not  the  thought  of  his  unfinished  and  un 
promising  errand  constantly  intruded  itself.  What 
could  Tristram  Trevanion  do  in  such  a  place  as  that  ? 
Who  would  care  for  the  Hounds  of  the  Whippoorwill 
Hills  ? 

Dr.  Theophilus  Gilbert  shaved  himself  very  care 
fully,  put  on  the  best  linen  that  Crampton  ever  saw, 
and  robed  himself  in  a  black  broadcloth  suit,  made  by 
the  Crampton  tailor,  and  only  brought  out  on  very 
pleasant  Sabbath  days,  or  great  secular  occasions.  He 
descended  to  breakfast,  and  was  exceedingly  pleased 
with  the  attentions  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  waiters. 
It  really  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  securing  a  larger 
share  of  attention  than  anybody  else,  and  that  those  less 
favored  must  look  upon  him  with  a  measure  of  envy. 
Breakfast  concluded,  he  devoted  half  an  hour  to  the  Di 
rectory,  copying  the  names  of  the  principal  publishing 
houses,  with  their  street  and  number.  Then  he  held  a 
long  conversation  with  a  fat  bar-keeper,  (who,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  and  a  paper  cap,  was  polishing  off  the  out 
side  and  filling  the  inside  of  his  bottles,)  with  relation 
to  the  locations  he  wished  to  find,  and  then  he  started 
out,  with  the  manuscript  novel  under  his  arm,  to  attend 
to  his  business. 


176 

He  had  not  given  up  the  Kilgores.  He  was  entirely 
faithless  as  to  their  having  seen  his  letter.  So  he  made 
his  way  to  the  great  house  of  the  Kilgores,  and  entered 
it  with  assumed  courage,  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
felt  more  like  a  beggar  than  a  gentleman  in  easy  cir 
cumstances.  He  inquired  of  a  clerk,  whom  he  had 
some  difficulty  in  apprising  of  his  presence,  for  "  the 
head  of  the  house." 

"  The  old  man,  I  suppose,"  said  the  young  man,  list 
lessly. 

The  doctor  said,  "  Yes,  sir,"  at  a  venture. 

"  Oh  !  he  won't  be  down  town  these  two  hours,"  re 
plied  the  clerk.  "  You'll  have  to  wait." 

The  doctor  waited.  He  was  bound  to  see  Kilgore 
the  elder,  before  any  other  publisher.  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  long  salesroom,  looking  at  the  shelves 
deeply  packed  with  books,  and  the  cases  full  of  the  pets 
of  the  public,  dressed  in  gorgeous  gold  and  morocco, 
and  wondered  what  kind  of  a  figure  his  manuscript 
would  make  in  such  brilliant  society.  Alas !  how  could 
room  be  made  in  such  a  crowded  establishment  for 
Tristram  Trevanion? 

He  had  begun  to  tire  of  this  thriftless  employment, 
wrhen  the  clerk,  to  \vhom  he  had  originally  spoken,  came 
out  from  behind  the  counter,  and,  inviting  him  into  the 
elder  Kilgore's  private  office,  told  him  that  he  could  sit 
there  quietly  and  read  the  papers,  until  the  head  of  the 
house  should  make  his  appearance.  He  accepted  the 
invitation,  and  was  conducted  back  to  a  little  room,  car 
peted  and  neatly  furnished.  At  a  desk  sat  a  lean,  mid 
dle-aged  man,  engaged  with  bills  and  letters.  At  his 
side  were  piles  of  proof-sheets,  wraiting  for  examination. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  177 

At  a  window,  stood  a  seedy-looking  man  of  fifty,  in 
brown  clothes,  with  his  hat  on,  gazing  out  upon  a  dead- 
wall,  and  apparently  absorbed  by  reflection.  The  clerk 
looked  up,  nodded,  waved  the  doctor  into  a  chair, 
pointed  to  a  newspaper,  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

As  the  doctor  took  his  seat  and  the  newspaper,  the 
seedy-looking  man  in  brown  turned  around,  and  came 
toward  him.  Dr.  Gilbert  noticed  the  wildness  of  his 
eyes  and  the  dingy  pallor  of  his  face,  and,  with  profes 
sional  readiness,  perceived  the  malady  that  afflicted  him. 
The  stranger  seized  the  doctor's  hand,  and  shaking  it 
warmly,  said :  "  This  is  Mr.  Kilgore.  May  the  Lord 
bless  him,  and  cause  his  face  to  shine  upon  him  !  " 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  My 
name  is  not  Kilgore.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  waiting  to 
see  Mr.  Kilgore,  as  I  presume  you  are." 

"  Then  you  are  not  Kilgore,  eh  ?     Who  are  you  7  " 

"  My  name  is  Gilbert,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Your  Christian  name  ?  " 

"  Theophilus." 

"  Theophilus,  I  salute  you.  All  the  saints  salute 
you.  What  are  your  views  of  the  millennium  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  that  I  have  any 
very  distinct  views  of  the  millennium.  I  suppose  every 
body  will  be  very  good  and  very  happy." 

"  Yes,  but  how  are  they  to  be  made  good  and  happy  ? 
That's  the  grand  secret,  sir,  and  that  secret  is  hid  in  me, 
an  unworthy  vessel..  You  behold  in  me,  sir,  the  fore-, 
runner  of  an  epoch — the  John  the  Baptist  of  the  Second 
Coming." 

The  doctor  was  amused,  and  asked  him  to  declare 
his  secret. 
8* 


178  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEB: 

"  It's  soon  to  be  published  to  the  world.  The  Kil- 
gores  have  had  it  all  night.  In  the  mean  time,  I  have 
no  objection  to  saying  to  you  privately  that  it's  flesh. 
You  know  how  it  was  with  the  children  of  Israel  when 
they  gathered  quails  in  the  wilderness,  ten  homers  a 
piece.  While  the  flesh  was  yet  between  their  teeth,  ere 
it  was  chewed,  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  was  kindled  against 
the  people,  and  the  Lord  smote  the  people  with  a  very 
great  plague.  God  made  man  upright,  but  he  has  been 
eating  dead  animals  so  long  that  he  has  lost  the  divine 
image,  and  become  a  beast.  All  we  have  to  do  to 
bring  about  the  millennium  is  to  stop  eating  dead  ani 
mals,  and  to  refrain  from  drinking  the  blood  of  beasts. 
The  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills  are  the  Lord's,  not 
ours,  sir ;  and  when  the  blessed  thousand  years  shall 
dawn,  and  these  cursed  slaughter-houses  are  shut  up, 
even  the  animals  of  the  forest  will  be  partakers  of  the 
benefit,  for  the  lion  shall  eat  straw  like  the  ox,  and  the 
cow  and  the  bear  shall  feed  together." 

Dr.  Gilbert  might  have  been  held  a  listener  to  the 
crazy  reformer's  scheme  for  the  regeneration  of  the  race 
for  an  uncomfortable  period,  but,  at  this  moment,  the 
elder  Kilgore  appeared,  and  in  company  with  him  a 
gentleman  exceedingly  well  dressed,  carrying  a  cane. 
Mr.  Kilgore  removed  his  hat  from  his  high,  bald  head, 
and  laid  it  upon  the  window-sill.  "  Positively  now," 
said  he  continuing  a  conversation  with  the  young  man 
which  had  been  interrupted  by  his  entrance,  "  you  must 
give  us  something  in  the  fall.  The  public  expect  it, 
you  know.  You  have  had  a  great  success,  and  the 
market  is  wide  open  for  you.  Just  a  little  less  religion, 
eh  ?  You  must  positively  bend  to  me  in  this.  I  think 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  179 

I  know  the  market :  not  quite  so  much  religion.  People 
are  not  fond  of  it.  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  spread  rather 
thin,  goes  very  well — but  not  too  much — not  too  much." 

The  young  man  laughed  jocularly,  twirled  his  cane, 
and  said :  "  Perhaps  I  did  spread  it  on  rather  thick  the 
last  time ;  but  really,  now,  Mr.  Kilgore,  I  think  there 
is  a  religious  vein  that  will  pay  for  working." 

"  Undoubtedly  !  But,  to  make  a  marketable  book, 
religion  must  be  sprinkled  in,  in  about  the  proportion 
that  we  find  it  in  the  world.  Then  it  goes  very  well, 
and  offends  nobody.  In  fact,  I  think  irreligious  people 
like  enough  of  the  article  to  give  a  book  a  kind  of  flavor 
or  smack  of  piety,  and  that  is  usually  enough  to  satisfy 
the  church." 

"  Well,  I'll  think  of  it,"  responded  the  young  man. 

The  doctor  had  listened  to  this  business  conversa 
tion  in  silent  astonishment.  The  reformer  watched  the 
pair  with  burning  eyes,  and  coming  up  to  the  young 
man,  he  extended  toward  him  his  long,  thin  finger,  and 
said :  "  Through  covetousness  shall  they  with  feigned 
words  make  merchandise  of  you,  whose  judgment  now 
of  a  long  time  lingereth  not,  and  their  damnation  slum- 
bereth  not.  There's  religion  for  you,  clean  and  solid, 
right  out  of  the  Bible  ;  no  sprinkling  about  that." 

"  Ruddock  !  Ruddock  !  "  called  Mr.  Kilgore,  excik 
edly.  "  Who  is  this  person  1  What  does  he  want 
here  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  Prophet  of  the. Second  Coming,"  answered 
the  man  for  himself. 

"  This  is  his  second  coming,"  replied  the  clerk,  "  and 
I  shall  be  glad  to  see  his  second  going." 

"  What  is  his  business,  Ruddock?  " 


180  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

"  He  is  the  man  who  left  the  manuscript  on  the  mil 
lennium  yesterday,"  replied  Ruddock. 

"  Oh !  yes.  Well,  sir,  our  engagements  are  such 
that  we  couldn't  think  of  undertaking  it.  Besides,  its 
contents  are  not  of  a  popular  character.  Nobody  cares 
any  thing  about  the  millennium,  and  you,  I  judge,  are 
not  the  man  to  treat  upon  it.  Ruddock,  give  this  per 
son  his  manuscript." 

Ruddock  handed  out  a  small,  dirty  roll  of  paper,  and 
the  reformer  pocketed  it. 

"  Ruddock,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore,  "  be  kind  enough  to 
open  the  door,  and  show  this  person  out." 

The  man  stood  irresolute,  and  commenced  to  speak, 
when  Ruddock  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he 
retired  shaking  the  dust  from  his  heels,  or  trying  to, 
and  distributing  anathemas  right  and  left.  The  young 
author,  whom  Mr.  Kilgore  had  been  courting  and  coun 
selling  so  daintily,  pleaded  an  engagement,  and  soon  fol 
lowed  the  author  of  the  work  on  the  millennium. 

"  You  have  business  with  me,  sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Kil 
gore,  turning  to  the  doctor. 

"  I  have,"  replied  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  added :  "  Perhaps 
this,  note,  which  I  received  from  your  house,  will  intro 
duce  it." 

Mr.  Kilgore  took  the  note,  and  ran  his  eye  over  it. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  letter  before  ?  "  inquired  the 
doctor. 

"  I  think  not,"  replied  Mr.  Kilgore. 

11  Did  you  ever  see  the  letter  from  me  to  which  this 
is  a  reply  1 " 

"  I  presume  not.  Ruddock  attends  to  these  things. 
By  the  way,  Ruddock,  I  see  we  are  out  of  blanks. 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  181 

You've  had  to  write  the  whole  of  this.  How  long  have 
we  been  out  of  blanks  ?  " 

"  Not  long,"  replied  the  confidential  clerk  ;  "  I  didn't 
have  to  write  more  than  a  dozen  complete.  I  have 
plenty  now." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  be  understood,  Mr.  Kilgore,  that 
you  have  blank  replies  to  such  applications  as  mine  ?  " 
inquired  the  doctor,  in  undisguised  astonishment. 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore.  "  You  see  we 
have  an  average  of  three  such  applications  as  yours  a 
day.  Three  hundred  working  days  in  a  year  makes  it 
necessary  to  send  nine  hundred  letters.  Well,  we  have 
so  much  to  do  that  the  blank  saves  time,  and  affords  a 
nice  little  chance  for  advertising.  It's  really  quite  a 
matter  of  economy." 

"  Of  course,  then,"  said  Dr.  Gilbert,  "  you  have  de 
cided  on  my  daughter's  book  without  giving  it  any  con 
sideration.  I  wish  you  to  see  it,  and  personally  to  be 
come  acquainted  with  its  merits." 

The  great  publisher  laughed.  Mr.  Ruddock  over 
heard  the  remark,  and  laughed  too.  "  Bless  your  soul, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore,  "  I  never  read  a  book  ;  I  haven't 
time." 

"  Somebody  reads,  I  suppose,"  continued  the  doc 
tor,  "  and  I  wish  my  daughter  to  have  a  chance." 

"  My  literary  man,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore,  "  would  read 
it  if  it  were  of  any  use,  but  my  engagements  are  such 
that  I  cannot  take  the  book.  Besides,  the  novel  market 
is  perfectly  flat.  I  think,  perhaps,  Kapp  &  Demigh 
might  do  something  for  you." 

"  What  class  of  books  does  the  young  man  who 
has  just  left  you  produce  1 "  inquired  the  doctor. 


182  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

"  Oh !  that  was  young  Fitzgerald,  the  most  popular 
and  promising  novelist  of  the  day.  Great  faculty  for 
hitting  the  popular  taste  just  in  the  bull's  eye, — just — 
in — the — bull's — eye."  And  Mr.  Kilgore  rubbed  his 
hands  pleasantly  together,  and  told  over  a  package  of 
letters,  as  if  they  were  a  pack  of  cards. 

"  I  see  your  engagements  are  not  such  as  to  prevent 
you  from  making  a  new  one  with  him,  nor  the  novel 
market  so  flat  as  to  fail  of  responding  to  him,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  bitter  tone. 

Mr.  Kilgore  smiled.  Mr.  Ruddock  looked  up,  and 
smiled  also.  "  You  are  sharp,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore.  "  You 
are  hard  on  me." 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  return  the  compliment,  and 
repeat  the  accusation,"  responded  the  doctor,  rising 
angrily  to  his  feet. 

"  We  profess  to  understand  our  business  here,"  said 
Mr.  Kilgore,  entirely  unruffled.  "  Ruddock  and  I  man 
age  to  get  along  very  well ;  eh !  Ruddock,  don't  we  1 " 

"  In  our  small  way,"  responded  the  clerk,  with 
pleasant  irony,  not  stopping  for  a  moment  in  his  work. 

"  Yes,  yes,  in  our  small  way,"  repeated  Mr.  KiL 
gore ;  and  then  he  began  to  bustle  about  his  desk  in  a 
way  that  said,  "  I  wish  this  old  fellow  would  take  his 
leave ;  why  don't  he  go "?  " 

Dr.  Gilbert  was  not  accustomed  to  being  treated  in 
this  way  at  all ;  and  it  irritated  him  exceedingly.  He 
turned  lingeringly  toward  the  door ;  then  hesitated,  and 
then  said  calmly :  "  Mr.  Kilgore,  do  you  think  this  is 
treating  my  daughter  fairly  1 " 

"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  my  good  friend,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Kilgore,  "  I've  been  treating  you  very  politely. 


AN   AMEEICAN   STOKY.  183 

To  save  your  feelings,  I  have  told  you  that  my  engage 
ments  are  such  that  I  cannot  take  your  book,  and  that 
the  novel  market  is  flat.  Now,  if  you  want  the  truth, 
it  is  that  a  publisher's  engagements  are  never  such  that 
he  cannot  take  hold  of  a  book  that  will  sell,  and  that 
the  novel  market  is  always  flat  to  new-comers.  There, 
you  have  the  whole  of  it,  and  as  you  are  probably  going 
the  rounds  here  in  New  York,  I'll  pay  you  something 
handsome  if  you  find  a  single  publisher  who  will  give 
you  the  real  reason  he  has  for  refusing  your  manu 
script.'" 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  present  frankness,  at  least," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  come  back  and  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore 
warmly,  as  a  new  thought  seemed  to  strike  him. 
"  Ruddock,  be  kind  enough  to  leave  us  till  I  call  you. 
Sit  down,  sir,  sit  down  !  " 

The  confidential  clerk  looked  up  surprised,  took  up 
some  of  his  papers,  and  retired. 

"  You  say,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore,  drawing  his  chair 
close  to  Dr.  Gilbert,  "  that  this  novel  is  written  by 
your  daughter.  Is  she  an  obedient  daughter  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  doctor,  a  good  deal  puzzled, 
"  she  has  a  strong  will,  but  she  is  mainly  obedient. 
Fanny  is  a  good  girl,  and  not  without  genius,  I  think." 

"  D — n  the  genius  !  Is  she  obedient  ?  That's  the 
question.  Is  she  willing  to  honor  your  judgment  in 
every  thing  1 " 

"  I  can't  say  that  she  is  ;  in  fact,  this  book  of  hers 
was  written  against  my  will,  and  I  am  only  sorry  at 
this  moment  that  I  had  not  enforced  my  wishes." 

"  That's  enough,"  replied  Mr.  Kilgore,  while  his  eye 


184  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEER  : 

flashed  angrily.  "I  wouldn't  publish  her  book  if  I 
knew  I  should  sell  a  million  copies  of  it." 

"  You  are  strangely  excited,"  said  Dr.  Gilbert ; 
"  and  you  will  allow  me  to  say  that  you  greatly  exag 
gerate  my  daughter's  disposition  to  disobedience." 

"  Yes — excited — yes  !  I've  seen  something  of  dis 
obedient  daughters.  "When  your  Fanny  snaps  her  fin 
gers  in  your  face,  and  raises  the  devil  with  all  your 
arrangements,  as  she's  sure  to  do,  sooner  or  later, 
you'll  be  excited, — very  strangely  excited.  Yes  !  By 
the  way,  whom  are  you  going  to  now  with  your  book  ? " 

"  I  have  Kapp  &  Demigh,  and  Ballou  &  Gold,  on 
my  note-book,"  replied  Dr.  Gilbert. 

"  Good  houses,  both  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore ; 
"  but  don't  go  beyond  them,  or  you'll  get  into  trouble. 
At  any  rate,  keep  out  of  Sargent's  hands — the  ripest 
young  scoundrel  that  ever  wore  a  sanctimonious  face? 
or  whined  at  a  prayer-meeting.  I  know  him.  He  used 
to  be  a  clerk  of  mine." 

The  doctor  laid  the  name  of  Sargent  carefully  away 
in  his  mind,  left  the  strangely  acting  publisher  as  soon 
as  he  could,  and  went  directly  to  the  City  Hotel,  to 
think  over  his  morning's  adventures,  get  some  dinner, 
and  lay  out  his  work  for  the  afternoon. 

From  the  moment  Sargent's  name  was  mentioned, 
Dr.  Gilbert  had  felt  that  Sargent  was  his  man.  He 
could  not  fail  to  detect  in  Mr.  Kilgore  a  strong  per 
sonal  enmity  toward  this  young  publisher.  His  mind, 
too,  had  in  it  that  perverse  element  which  rebelled 
against  all  dictation,  whether  intended  for  his  good  or 
not.  He  did  not  like  Mr.  Kilgore  at  all ;  and  as  the 
probability  was  that  Mr.  Sargent  did  not  like  him  at 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  185 

all,  they  would  be  apt  to  like  one  another,  and  get  along 
together  very  well.  Besides,  Dr.  Gilbert  had  had  suffi 
cient  experience  with  first-class  houses,  and  was  ready 
to  try  a  little  lower  down. 

Accordingly,  after  dinner,  Dr.  Gilbert  held  another 
examination  of  the  Directory,  and  another  conversation 
with  the  fat  bar-keeper  in  paper  cap  and  shirt-sleeves, 
and  issued  out  to  find  the  unpretending  establishment  of 
young  Sargent.  This  he  succeeded  in  doing ;  and  in 
quiring  for  Mr.  Sargent,  he  was  directed  to  a  young  man 
in  a  brown  linen  coat,  engaged  in  nailing  up  a  box  of 
books — a  lithe,  springy,  driving  fellow,  with  a  bright, 
open  face,  and  an  unmistakable  air  of  business  about 
him.  The  doctor  loved  him  at  once.  All  the  Kilgores 
in  Christendom  could  not  frighten  him  from  such  an 
apparent  impersonation  of  good  nature,  determined  en 
terprise,  and  laborious  activity. 

The  doctor  waited  until  the  publisher  had  nailed  his 
box,  and  then  told  him  he  would  like  to  see  him  pri 
vately.  The  young  man  doffed  his  brown  linen,  and 
donned  a  more  dignified  article,  and  then  invited  the 
doctor  into  what  he  good-humoredly  called  his  "  den." 

Mr.  Frank  Sargent  was  frank  by  nature,  as  by 
name,  and  when  Dr.  Gilbert  made  known  his  business, 
he  said :  "  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  you  have  been  the 
rounds.  They  all  do  before  they  come  to  me." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  to  but  one  concern," 
replied  the  doctor. 

"  Whose  was  that  1 " 

«  The  Kilgores'." 

"  The  Kilgores'  ?  They  didn't  tell  you  to  come  to 
me  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Sargent  in  astonishment. 


186 

"  Not  at  all ;  they  warned  me  against  you." 

"  And  why  do  you  come  ?  " 

"  Because  I  thought  I  should  like  a  young  man  whom 
the  elder  Kilgore  did  not." 

Mr.  Frank  Sargent  tried  to  smile,  but  his  lip  quiv 
ered,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  exclaimed, 
"  God  forgive  him  !  "  Then  he  pushed  out  his  hands 
impatiently,  as  if  warning  away  a  crowd  of  unwelcome 
thoughts  and  memories,  and  said :  "  Well,  let's  talk 
about  the  book." 

The  first  thing  Mr.  Sargent  did  was  to  tell  Dr.  Gil 
bert  all  about  his  business — what  disadvantages  he  la 
bored  under — what  lack  of  capital  he  suffered  from — 
what  treatment  he  was  constantly  receiving  from  heavy 
houses  that  could  undersell  him,  or  give  longer  time  on 
accounts.  Gradually  he  came  to  the  book,  and  revealed 
to  the  doctor  the  fact  that  he  could  not  alone  run  the 
risk  of  publishing  it,  even  if  he  should  like  it.  The 
doctor  would  have  to  agree  to  share  any  loss  that  might 
attend  its  publication ;  and  it  was  concluded,  after  a  full 
and  free  conversation,  that  Mr.  Sargent  should  read  the 
manuscript,  and  that  Dr.  Gilbert  should  return  home 
and  await  the  result. 

Mr.  Sargent  obligingly  conducted  the  doctor  back  to 
his  hotel,  treated  him  with  a  great  deal  of  consideration, 
came  for  him  in  the  evening,  and  walked  with  him  to 
some  of  the  principal  points  of  interest  in  the  city,  was 
at  the  boat  on  the  following  morning  to  see  him  safely  off, 
and  then  he  bade  him  good-bye.  The  doctor  started  for 
his  home  quite  satisfied — determined,  in  fact,  that  he 
would  pay  for  the  publication  of  "  Tristram  Trevanion  " 
entirely,  rather  than  have  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  poorer 
for  it  by  a  dollar. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  1ST 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

TRISTEAM    TEEVANION     IS    ACCEPTED,     AND    DE.     GILBEET     18 

REJECTED. 

DE.  GILBERT  accomplished  his  whole  trip  in  less 
than  a  week,  and  arrived  at  Crampton  in  the  evening, 
just  as  his  family  were  retiring  to  bed.  Fanny  met 
him  with  the  very  unusual  demonstration  of  a  kiss,  and 
Aunt  Catharine  shook  his  hand  cordially,  declaring  she 
was  "  right  down  glad  to  see  him,"  for  she  had  had  no 
one  to  quarrel  with  since  he  went  away.  He  was  glad  to 
get  home  ;  and  for  the  first  ten  minutes  busied  himself 
with  inquiries  for  his  patients,  his  pony,  his  farmers,  his 
boy  Fred,  and  every  thing  and  everybody  bearing  any 
direct  relation  to  him. 

"  And  how  is  our  friend,  Miss  Hammett  ?  "  inquired 
Dr.  Gilbert,  at  last. 

"  She  has  not  been  herself  at  all,  since  you  went 
away,"  replied  Fanny.  "  When  I  told  her  that  you 
had  gone  to  New  York  to  get  the  book  published,  she 
turned  very  pale,  and  came  near  fainting." 

"  Hem  !  "  from  Aunt  Catharine. 

The  doctor  could  neither  help  smiling  nor  feeling  a 


188  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

great  deal  more  gratification  than  he  was  quite  willing 
to  manifest. 

"  All  I  ask,"  said  Aunt  Catharine,  with  mock 
seriousness,  "  is,  that  you  give  me  suitable  notice  to 
quit,  so  that  I  can  have  time  to  get  a  new  home." 

"  Oh  !  nonsense  !  Catharine,"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
yet  he  could  not  look  displeased.  The  thought  that  the 
gentle  Mary  Hammett  cared  for  him  was  exceedingly 
precious  to  him.  It  brought  back  with  a  wild  sweep 
through  his  heart  the  tides  of  youth,  and  seemed  to 
open  to  him  another  life. 

"  I  suppose  you  and  Fanny  wish  to  get  rid  of  me," 
said  Aunt  Catharine,  "  so,  good  night." 

After  her  obliging  withdrawal,  father  and  daughter 
held  a  long  conversation  on  the  subject  which  the  latter 
had  most  at  heart.  The  doctor  told  the  story  of  his 
journey,  of  his  interview  with  Kilgore  the  elder,  and  of 
his  final  arrangement  with  Mr.  Frank  Sargent.  Closing 
the  narrative  of  his  enterprise  and  adventures,  he  said  : 
"  And  now,  Fanny,  this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  con 
sent  to  be  engaged  in  any  thing  of  this  kind.  You  see 
that  your  career  is  very  much  my  career,  and  that  you 
were  utterly  powerless  to  do  any  thing  alone.  I  have 
neither  time  nor  disposition  to  do  this  kind  of  business. 
It  does  not  pay  in  any  way.  It  has  already  cost  both 
you  and  me  more,  tenfold,  than  it  will  ever  return  to 
either  of  us,  in  money  or  reputation.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  us  to  dream  pretty  dreams  up  here  in  Crampton, 
but  the  world  does  not  care  for  them,  nor  for  us ;  so 
what  is  the  use  of  our  caring  about  the  world  ? " 

Fanny  was  under  too  many  obligations  to  her  father 
for  his  assistance  to  multiply  words  with  him  concern- 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  189 

ing  her  future  course  ;  but  he  read,  in  her  silence,  her 
firmly  compressed  lips,  and  the  gray  coldness  of  her 
eyes,  the  strength  of  unrelinquished  purpose. 

The  next  day  Dr.  Gilbert  was  abroad  early,  looking 
after  his  affairs.  The  little  black  pony  had  rested  a 
longer  time  than  since  he  had  been  in  Dr.  Gilbert's 
possession,  and  the  little  gig  rattled  and  reeled  along 
behind  him  so  merrily,  that -the  doctor  quite  forgot  the 
excitements  and  vexations  of  the  week,  in  the  pleasures 
of  his  business.  But  he  was  working  against  time  quite 
as  evidently  as  when  he  was  first  introduced  to  the 
reader,  on  the  morning  of  the  great  exhibition  of  the 
Crampton  Light  Infantry.  He  had  always  been  faith 
ful  in  visiting  schools,  and  the  pony  and  gig  understood 
their  way  to  the  school-house  door  quite  as  well  as  to 
the  doors  of  half  a  dozen  patients  who  had  been  on  the 
doctor's  hands  for  twenty  years.  In  fact,  they  seemed 
to  regard  it- as  a  hopelessly  chronic  case,  and  to  turn  up 
regularly  whenever  they  came  that  way. 

At  mid-afternoon,  Dr.  Gilbert,  with  feelings  very 
new  and  peculiar,  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  centre 
school-house,  and  was  admitted  by  Miss  Hammett,  who 
seemed  to  be  possessed  by  feelings  quite  as  new  and 
peculiar  as  his  own.  After  the  exchange  of  the  routine 
of  civil  inquiries,  she  went  on  with  her  recitations,  alter 
nately  flushed  and  pale.  Her  appearance  was  so  unlike 
what  it  had  previously  been,  that  Dr.  Gilbert  was 
puzzled.  What  was  the  matter  with  Miss  Hammett  ? 
It  was  not  joy,  but  apprehension,  that  she  manifested 
when  he  met  her.  Pleasure  was  not  the  parent  of  such 
pallor.  The  flush  of  delight  did  not  burn  the  fore 
head. 


190  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

"  I  am  not  well,"  said  Miss  Hammett,  at  last,  "  and 
with  your  leave,  Dr.  Gilbert,  I  will  dismiss  the  school." 

"  Certainly.  Do  so  at  once,"  responded  her  visitor. 
"  I  will  send  Fanny  over  to  see  you,  and,  if  you  get  no 
relief,  I  will  attend  you." 

The  doctor  felt  that  she  wished  to  get  rid  of  him, 
and  lost  no  time  in  leaving  her.  Going  directly  to  his 
home,  he  bade  Fanny  visit  the  schoolmistress,  and  went 
about  his  affairs  oppressed  with  an  unsatisfied,  uneasy 
feeling,  that  he  could  neither  explain  to  himself  nor 
shake  off. 

Fanny  made  the  visit,  and  while  Miss  Hammett  re 
clined  in  her  chamber,  entertained  her  with  a  long 
account  of  her  father's  adventures  in  New  York  and  by 
the  way.  The  story  semed  to  possess  almost  miracu 
lous  powers  of  healing.  Miss  Hammett  listened  with 
the  profoundest  interest,  and  made  a  great  many  in 
quiries,  particularly  with  relation  to  the  publishers 
visited,  and  seemed  to  be  interested  in  the  minutest 
particulars.  Then  she  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  sat  with 
her  hand  in  Fanny's,  and  told  her  how  much  good  she 
had  done  her.  "Tell  your  father,"  said  Miss  Hammett, 
"  that  his  prescription  has  wrought  wonders,  and  that  if 
he  will  visit  my  school  again,  I  will  not  turn  him  out  of 
doors." 

Fanny  went  away  very  much  puzzled,  after  promis 
ing  Miss  Hammett  that  she  wrould  faithfully  communi 
cate  to  her  the  result  of  the  negotiations  with  Mr.  Frank 
Sargent. 

A  few  days  passed  away  after  the  usual  fashion,  and 
then  came  the  anxiously  looked  for  letter.  Dr.  Gilbert 
read  it,  made  no  comment,  and  handed  it  over  to 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  191 

Fanny.  Fanny  read  it,  made  no  comment,  and  went 
directly  to  Miss  Hammett's  room  with  it ;  and  there 
she  read  it  carefully  to  the  schoolmistress.  We  will 
look  over  her  shoulder,  and  read  it  also  : 

"  DR.  GILBERT  : 

"  DEAR  SIR — I  have  carefully  read  your  daughter's 
manuscript  novel,  '  Tristram  Trevanion,'  and  find 
it  quite  interesting,  though  I  doubt  whether  it  can 
ever  achieve  much  success.  I  should  say  that  it  is  a 
very  young  novel — written  by  one  who  has  seen  little 
of  life,  and  much  of  books.  The  invention  manifested 
in  the  incidents  is  quite  extraordinary,  and  displays 
genius,  though  the  characters  are  extravagant.  But  I 
do  not  write  to  criticize  the  book.  Worse  books  have 
found  many  buyers.  I  accept  it  on  the  terms  upon 
which  we  settled,  as  it  is ;  but  there  are  one  or  two 
points  touching  which  I  wish  to  make  some  suggestions. 
The  hero,  Tristram  Trevanion,  does  not  marry  Grace 
Beaumont,  as  he  ought  to  do.  I  think  I  understand  the 
public  mind  when  I  say  that  it  will  demand  that  this 
marriage  take  place.  It  could  be  done  by  altering  a 
few  pages.  Again,  I  think  that  the  public  will  demand 
that  the  Jewish  dwarf,  Levi,  be  made  in  some  way  to 
suffer  a  violent  death  at  the  hand  of  Trevanion.  One 
word  about  the  title.  I  confess  to  its  music,  but  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  so  smooth  as  to  present  no  points  to 
catch  the  popular  attention.  Besides,  I  find  that  the 
'  Hounds  of  the  Whippoorwill  Hills '  make  their  ap 
pearance  but  once  in  the  story,  and  have  no  claim  upon 
the  prominence  given  them  on  the  title-page.  Your 
daughter  will  think  it  very  strange,  no  doubt ;  but  I  be- 


192  MISS  GILBEET'S  CAEEEK: 

lieve  that  the  sale  of  the  book  would  be  increased  by 
making  the  title  rougher — more  startling.  How  does 
this  look  to  you — '  Tristram  Trevanion,  or  Butter 
and  Cheese  and  All ; '  or  this — '  Tristram  Trevanion,  or 
The  Dwarf  with  the  Flaxen  Forelock  '  ?  There  is  another 
course  which  is  probably  preferable  to  this,  viz. :  that  of 
making  a  title  which  means  nothing,  and  will  puzzle 
people — a  title  that  defines  and  explains  nothing — be 
stowed  in  a  whim,  as  we  sometimes  give  a  child  a  name. 
What  would  your  daughter  think  of  '  Ehododendron,' 
or  '  Shucks  '  ? 

"  I  can  imagine  the  horror  with  which  your  '  Eve- 
rard  Everest,  Gent.'  will  look  upon  these  suggestions, 
but  they  are  honestly  made,  with  a  view  to  securing 
the  highest  success  of  which  the  book  is  capable.  You 
will  remember,  of  course,  that  I  presume  to  dictate 
nothing  ;  I  only  suggest.  In  regard  to  the  title,  I  feel 
less  particular  than  with  relation  to  the  marriage  of 
Trevanion,  and  the  violent  death  of  the  dwarf.  The 
public  demands  that  the  issues  of  a  novel  shall  be  poetic 
justice ;  and  that  the  devotion  of  Trevanion  and  the 
diabolism  of  the  dwarf  deserve  the  rewards  I  have  indi 
cated,  the  public  cannot  fail  to  perceive. 

"  Awaiting  your  reply,  I  am 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"FRANK  SARGENT." 

When  Fanny  concluded  the  reading  of  this  epistle,  it 
was  with  a  most  contemptuous  curl  of  the  lip,  and  a 
general  expression,  upon  her  strong  and  handsome  fea 
tures,  of  disgust.  "  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  thing  so 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  193 

ridiculous  as  this  in  your  life,  Miss  Hammett  7 "  in 
quired  Fanny. 

Miss  Hammett  could  do  nothing  but  laugh.  Sho 
seized  the  letter,  re-read  portions  of  it,  and  laughed 
again  uncontrollably — almost  hysterically.  Miss  Fanny 
Gilbert  did  not  know  what  construction  to  put  upon 
this  merriment.  She  tried  to  join  with  her  at  first,  but 
the  joke  would  not  seem  pleasant  to  her.  First  came 
upon  her  face  a  shadow  of  pain,  then  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  she  rose  and  walked  to  the  window  to  hide 
her  emotion.  Her  companion  was  sober  in  an  instant, 
and  following  her,  put  her  arm  tenderly  around  her,  and 
led  her  back  to  the  sofa.  "  You  know,"  said  Miss 
Hammett  warmly,  "  that  I  would  not  wound  your  feel 
ings  for  the  world,  but  one  has  fits  of  laughing  some 
times  that  one  cannot  account  for  at  all.  I  don't  know 
what  I  have  been  laughing  at,  I'm  sure." 

If  Fanny  had  been  looking  at  Miss  Hammett,  she 
would  have  seen  that  that  young  woman  was  having  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  restraining  herself  from  a  further 
outburst. 

"  It  seems  so  mercenary,"  said  Fanny. 

"  And  so  professional,"  said  Miss  Hammett. 

"  And  so  careless  of  an  author's  feelings." 

"  And  so  ridiculous." 

"  And  so  servile  to  public  opinion.  As  if  every 
body  must  be  married  or  killed,  because  the  precious 
public  demand  it !  Who  cares  what  the  public  de 
mand  ? " 

"  Tut,  tut,  Fanny  !  Take  care  !  "  said  Miss  Ham 
mett,  looking  archly  into  Fanny's  face.  "  Are  you  sure 
that  you  do  not  condemn  yourself  in  your  condemnation 
0 


194 

of  this  young  publisher  ?  Unless  I  have  misunderstood 
you,  the  book  was  written  for  fame — for  public  ap 
plause — and  Mr.  Sargent  is  only  endeavoring  to  assist 
you  to  accomplish  your  ends." 

"But  I  wish  to  accomplish  my  ends  in  my  own 
way,"  said  Fanny,  imperiously. 

"  But  suppose  the  public  will  not  be  pleased  with 
your  way  1  "  suggested  Miss  Hammett.  "  People  who 
work  for  public  applause  are  not  so  independent  as  you 
think.  What  do  you  care  for  the  marriage  of  your 
man,  or  the  death  of  your  dwarf,  if  it  help  you  to  ob 
tain  your  object  ?  " 

"  But  the  title !  Who  ever  heard  of  any  thing  so 
preposterous  as  '  Rhododendron,'  or  '  Shucks '  ?  " 

"  Everybody  has  heard  of  titles  quite  as  ridiculous 
as  those,  adopted  for  no  reason  in  the  world  but  to 
catch  the  public  eye.  As  for  the  first  one  suggested, 
'  Tristram  Trevanion,  or  Butter  and  Cheese  and  All,'  it 
seems  to  me  to  have  a  charming  mingling  of  the  ideal 
and  the  real  in  its  structure." 

"  Miss  Hammett,  you  are  laughing  at  me,"  said 
Fanny,  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 

"  Indeed,  I'm  not.  Now  tell  me  why  you  chose  the 
title  you  did." 

"  Because  it  was  musical.  Because — because — I 
thought  the  public  would  like  it,"  said  Fanny,  blushing, 
and  biting  her  lips. 

Miss  Hammett  broke  into  a  low  musical  laugh. 
"  Ah  !  Fanny,  Fanny,"  said  she,  "  we  are  not  so  much 
elevated  above  the  motives  of  our  publishers  as  we 
might  be,  are  we  1  Let  me  advise  you  to  be  very  just 
toward  Mr.  Frank  Sargent.  You  are  both  laboring  for 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  195 

one  object — the  popularity  of  Tristram  Trevanion  ;  and 
if  you  put  your  heads  together — I  mean  by  mail,  of 
course — your  hero  will  make  the  better  headway  in  the 
world  for  it.  For  my  part,  I  see  no  objections  to  the 
marriage  and  the  murder  proposed.  As  for  the  title,  I 
think  you  have  the  advantage  ;  so  you  can  compromise 
by  keeping  that,  and  changing  the  issues  of  the  story." 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  could  know  what  an  ad 
vocate  he  has  here,"  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"  Fanny,"  said  Miss  Hammett  with  undisguised 
alarm,  "  you  must  promise  me  that  you  will  never 
mention  my  name,  or  say  one  word  about  me,  in  any 
communication  you  may  make  to  Mr.  Sargent.  I  am 
really  very  much  in  earnest,  as  you  see." 

Fanny  did  see  this,  but,  with  girlish  perverseness, 
said:  "  I  positively  cannot  allow  such  disinterested  ser 
vice  to  go  unrewarded.  Mr.  Sargent  must  be  informed, 
in  some  way,  of  his  indebtedness  to  you." 

Miss  Hammett  grasped  Fanny's  wrist,  and  said,  al" 
most  fiercely,  "  Fanny  Gilbert,  if  you  do  not  promise 
me,  before  you  leave  this  room,  that  you  will  never 
mention  my  name,  nor  allude  to  me  in  any  way  in 
your  letters  to  New  York,  I  will  leave  Crampton  to 
morrow." 

"  Why,  Miss  Hammett !  "  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"  Yes,  to-morrow ;  and  I  shall  go  where  you  will 
never  see  me  again.  I  beg  you  to  promise  me,  because 
I  am  happier  here  than  I  have  been  for  many  months, 
and  happier  than  I  can  be  elsewhere." 

"  Of  course,  I  promise  you,"  said  Fanny  ;  "  but  it's 
very  strange — very  strange." 

"  Oh  !  I  thank  you !     I  thank  you  a  thousand  times," 


196  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

said  Miss  Hammett ;  "  but  you  must  stop  thinking  how 
strange  it  is.  I  cannot  explain  any  thing  to  you  now ; 
but  some  time — some  time.  There,  dear,  let's  talk  no 
more  about  it.  Please  do  not  mention  this  to  your 
father.  By  the  way,  Fanny,  leave  me  that  letter  for 
half  an  hour.  I  wish  to  look  it  over,  and  think  it  over." 

The  young  women  kissed  each  other,  and  Fanny 
took  her  leave.  Miss  Hammett  accompanied  her  to 
the  street-door,  then  locked  it,  then  entered  her  own 
room,  and  locked  herself  in,  and  then  she  took  the  bus 
iness  letter  of  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  in  her  hands,  pressed 
it  to  her  heart,  and  walking  back  and  forth  in  her  apart 
ment,  kissed  it  a  hundred  times.  It  does  not  become 
us  to  linger,  while  she  kneels  and  pours  out  her  thanks, 
giving  and  her  prayer.  Enough  for  us  now  that  there 
.was  something  in  the  letter  that  touched  the  deepest 
springs  of  her  life,  and  startled  its  sleeping  secrets  into 
intense  alarm. 

In  the  interval  between  Dr.  Gilbert's  call  upon  Miss 
Hammett  at  her  school-room,  and  the  reception  of  the 
letter  from  Mr.  Frank  Sargent,  the  doctor  had  seen  her 
more  than  once,  and  was  glad  to  find  her  equanimity 
quite  restored.  She  treated  him  in  the  old  frank  way? 
which  had  always  been  a  way  exceedingly  charming  to 
him.  He  found  himself  more  and  more  attracted  to  her, 
and  more  and  more  significant  did  life  look  to  him,  as 
he  came  to  associate  it  with  her  life.  He  had  very 
honestly  loved  the  mother  of  his  children,  and  when  she 
passed  away,  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  nothing 
but  work  that  could  fill  the  vacant  life  she  left.  Now 
he  dreamed  of  this  new,  sweet  presence  in  his  house,  of 
a  wise  and  sympathetic  companion  for  his  daughter,  of 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  197 

a  mother  for  little  Fred.  Aunt  Catharine,  whose  shrewd 
eyes  had  read  every  thing,  had  noticed  that  he  was  more 
careful  about  his  linen,  and  took  more  pains  with  his 
toilet,  than  usual ;  and  the  neighbors  thought  that  the 
school  had  never  been  so  closely  looked  after  by  the 
committee  before. 

Still,  there  was  this  mystery  about  Miss  Hammett. 
Would  it  be  prudent  for  him — a  man  of  position  and 
influence — to  marry  an  unknown  woman,  picked  out  of 
so  dirty  a  factory  as  that  at  Hucklebury  Run  ?  What 
would  the  people  say  ?  Would  it  not  compromise  his 
respectability  1  Again  and  again  he  recalled  the  assur 
ance  she  gave  him  in  her  first  interview  with  him : 
"  Only  believe  this,  Dr.  Gilbert — that  if  you  ever  learn 
the  truth  about  me,  by  any  means,  it  will  bring  dis 
grace  neither  to  me  nor  to  those  who  may  befriend  me." 
He  did  believe  it ;  yet  caution  said,  "  This  is  what  a 
guilty  woman  would  say  quite  as  readily  as  an  innocent 
one.  Be  on  your  guard,  Dr.  Gilbert.  You  are  too  old 
a  fellow  to  be  taken  in  by  a  sweet  face,  and  plausible 
words."  Miss  Hammett,  of  course,  was  entirely  un 
aware  of  the  nature  of  Dr.  Gilbert's  feelings,  and  the 
character  of  his  cogitations.  She  regarded  him  almost  as 
a  father — at  least,  as  a  reliable  counsellor  and  friend — 
one  to  whom  she  might  go  with  all  her  trials,  and  one  in 
whose  protection  she  might  thoroughly  trust.  She  took 
great  pains  to  please  him,  and  to  satisfy  all  his  wishes  in 
the  arduous  position  she  had  assumed.  They  held  fre 
quent  consultations  in  the  school-room,  and  at  the  doc 
tor's  own  tea-table,  at  which  she  was  always  a  welcome 
guest.  In  these  interviews,  the  young  woman's  unas 
suming  manners,  rare  good  sense,  and  charming  modesty 


198  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEK  : 

and  vivacity,  won  more  and  more  upon  the  doctor's 
heart,  until  he  found  that  a  day  passed  without  seeing 
her,  and  hearing  her  voice,  was  tasteless  and  mean 
ingless. 

A  matter  like  this  could  not  be  long  in  coming  to 
maturity  in  a  mind  like  that  of  Dr.  Gilbert.  To  feel 
that  Mary  Hammett  was  desirable,  and  to  will  the 
possession  of  her  hand,  were  one,  so  soon  as  he  could 
satisfy  himself  that  Mary  Hammett  was  indeed  what 
she  seemed  to  be.  How  could  he  satisfy  himself? 
Alas  !  There  was  but  one  who  could  inform  him,  and 
her  lips  were  sealed,  and  he,  as  a  man  of  honor,  was 
bound  to  respect  their  silence.  For  once  he  was  forced 
to  trust  to  Providence,  or  chance,  and  to  leave  his  own 
action  to  impulse. 

When  Fanny  returned  home,  after  reading  Mr. 
Frank  Sargent's  letter  to  Miss  Hammett,  her  father, 
who  guessed  where  she  had  been,  inquired  what  the 
young  woman  thought  of  the  publisher's  missive. 
Fanny  made  a  hurried,  unsatisfactory  reply,  and  went 
to  her  room.  This  was  excuse  sufficient  for  Dr.  Gil 
bert  to  call  upon  the  schoolmistress,  and  talk  over  the 
affair.  Accordingly,  Miss  Hammett  had  hardly  com 
posed  herself  after  the  emotions  excited  by  the  letter, 
when  Mrs.  Blague  came  to  her  door,  and  told  her  that 
Dr.  Gilbert  waited  for  her  in  the  parlor.  Hurriedly 
thrusting  Mr.  Frank  Sargent's  letter  into  her  bosom, 
and  giving  a  glance  in  the  mirror  to  see  if  her  face  were 
telling  forbidden  tales  or  not,  she  descended,  and  met 
her  fatherly  friend  with  her  usual  frankness  and  cor 
diality. 

"  Fanny  has  been  to  see  you  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  199 

«  Yes." 

"  And  read  to  you  Mr.  Sargent's  letter,  I  suppose." 

"Yes." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  letter  of  a  man  who  has 
a  sharp  eye  for  business,  and  a  shrewd  insight  into  the 
popular  taste,"  replied  Miss  Hammett. 

"  Hem  !  I  hope  you  advised  Fanny  frankly  in  the 
matter,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  can  hardly  say  that  I  advised  her  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry  you  did  not,"  responded  the  doc 
tor.  "  Fanny  needs  womanly  counsel.  Poor  child ! 
Since  her  mother  died  she  has  had  little  sympathy  from 
her  own  sex,  and  has  grown  up  a  little  unfeminme,  I 
fear." 

"  I  have  been  very  happy  in  her  society,"  said  the 
young  woman,  cordially,  "  and  have  always  given  her 
such  advice  as  I  felt  competent  to  give  her." 

"  Hem  !  I  thank  you.  It  has  always  been  a  comfort 
to  me  to  know  that  you  wcro  together.  By  the  wray, 
how  is  my  little  boy  getting  along  with  his  books  1 " 

"  Only  too  rapidly,"  replied  the  schoolmistress.  "  I 
sometimes  tremble  when  I  see  how  eagerly  the  little 
fellow  pursues  his  tasks,  and  how  frail  he  is." 

The  doctor's  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure,  and  he 
rubbed  his  hands  with  satisfaction  as  he  said,  "  Ah  ! 
Freddy  is  a  rare  boy — a  rare  boy  !  I  think  we  shall 
be  able  to  make  something  of  him." 

"  But  you  must  not  force  him,  doctor.  I'm  afraid 
he  has  too  much  study." 

"  Well,  I  suppose,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  I'm  unfit 
to  manage  him  ;  "  and  then  he  blushed  to  think  that  he 


200  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEER  '. 

had  lied.  He  wanted  somehow  to  say  that  the  boy 
needed  a  mother,  but  he  was  certainly  unable  to  man 
age  that. 

Dr.  Gilbert  found  that  the  relations  which  existed 
between  him  and  Miss  Hammett,  though  intimate  and 
cordial  of  their  kind,  formed  almost  an  impassable  gulf 
between  him  and  his  wishes.  How  could  the  fatherly 
Dr.  Gilbert  come  to  a  declaration  of  his  love  for  a 
woman  who,  as  she  sat  before  him,  seemed  never  to 
have  dreamed  of  any  other  relations  as  possible  ?  The 
gulf  must  be  bridged,  in  some  way — if  not  by  artifice, 
by  violence — by  main  strength. 

Dr.  Gilbert  cleared  his  throat  again.  "  I  have  no 
ticed  the  intimacy  between  you  and  my  daughter  with 
great  pleasure,"  said  he,  "  and  have  been  delighted  with 
the  manner  in  which  you  have  managed  to  secure  the 
affections  of  my  little  boy ;  of  course,  the  thought  has 
naturally  been  forced  upon  me,  that  if  this  intimacy  and . 
affection  could  be  found  at  home,  in  one  who  would 
bear  the  name  of  mother,  it  would  be  every  way  desira 
ble.  You  will  pardon  my  abruptness,  Miss  Hammett, 
when  I  say  to  you  that  you  are  the  first  woman  I  have 
met,  since  the  death  of  my  wife,  whom  I  would  be  glad 
to  see  in  her  place." 

It  was  out.  The  gulf  was  bridged,  and  the  doctor 
was  relieved  to  think  that  he  had  established  a  basis  for 
negotiations.  But  what  was  the  impression  upon  the 
young  woman  ?  As  the  nature  of  the  declaration  grad 
ually  found  its  way  into  her  consciousness,  she  grew 
deathly  pale,  and  sat  speechless,  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
floor. 

"  I  have  believed,"  continued  the  doctor,  "  that  you 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  201 

were  not  altogether  without  respect  for  me,  and  have  hoped 
that  you  might  come*  to  entertain  a  more  genial  senti 
ment.  There  is  difference  of  age  between  us,  I  grant ; 
but  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  I  offer  you  an  honest  affec 
tion,  as  I  certainly  offer  you  my  home,  my  protection, 
and  my  position.  There  are  some  mysteries  connected 
with  your  life  which  I  have  not,  as  you  will  bear  me 
witness,  sought  to  probe.  I  have  trusted  you,  and  of 
course  I  trust  you  still.  My  proposition,  I  see,  sur 
prises  you,  and  if  you  wish  for  time  to  consider  it, 
I  will  leave  you,  and  take  your  answer  at  some  other 
time." 

During  all  this  speech,  delivered  in  a  low,  firm  tone 
of  voice,  Dr.  Gilbert  had  closely  watched  the  young 
woman.  He  saw  the  pale  cheek  and  lips  redden  into 
crimson.  He  saw  tears  forming  slowly  in  her  down 
cast  eyes,  and  then  drop  unheeded  upon  her  hand.  He 
saw  a  tremor  like  a  chill  pass  over  her  frame,  and  then, 
as  he  concluded,  and  spoke  of  a  future  answer  to  his. 
proposals,  he  saw  her  lift  her  head,  and  heard  her  say, 
"  Do  not  go." 

The  temptation  to  seize  her  hand  and  kiss  it  was  ir 
resistible.  The  doctor  grasped  it,  and  bent  his  head 
toward  it,  but  instantly  Miss  Hammett  had  withdrawn 
it,  and  was  upon  her  feet.  "  Dr.  Gilbert,"  said  she, 
"  that  hand  is  sacred.  It  is  not  mine.  It  cannot  be 
yours.  I  will  be  your  servant.  I  will  do  any  thing  for 
the  happiness  of  those  you  love  that  it  is  consistent  for 
me  to  do — but  I  cannot  be  your  wife.  I  asked  you  not 
to  go,  because  my  answer  was  ready." 

It  was  now  Dr.  Gilbert's  turn  to  be  surprised.  He 
could  not  realize  that  he — Dr.  Gilbert — who  had  hesi- 
9* 


202  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

tated  to  offer  himself  to  an  unknown  woman,  should  be 
so  peremptorily  rejected. 

"  You  are  hasty,"  said  he.  "  I  beg  you  to  consider 
the  matter.  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  it ;  it  must  be 
so  ;  I — I  cannot  take  your  answer." 

Miss  Hammett  stood  with  her  hands  folded,  and 
pressed  to  her  heart.  "Dr.  Gilbert,"  said  she,  "I 
should  be  entirely  unworthy  of  the  place  to  which  you 
invite  me,  if  I  were  to  give  one  moment's  entertainment 
to  your  proposition.  Were  I  to  consent  to  be  your 
wife,  I  should  become  a  perjured  wretch,  fit  only  for 
your  loathing  and  your  abhorrence." 

"  My  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  the  veins  of  his 
forehead  swelling  fearfully,  "  and  is  my  case  Avith  you 
so  hopeless  1  Why  !  woman,  it  darkens  my  whole 
life." 

"  Dr.  Gilbert,"  said  Miss  Hammett  with  assumed 
calmness,  "  if  I  were  my  own,  I  could  give  myself  to  you, 
but  I  am  not,  and  why  should  we  exchange  further 
words  ?  You  know  that  I  would  rather  suffer  much 
than  wound  you,  and  you  know,  too,  that  I  have  never 
invited  this  proposal  from  you.  You  have  been  always 
a  generous  man  toward  me ;  I  ask  you  to  be  so  still, 
and  never  to  allude  to  this  subject  again.  I  am  alone ; 
and  if,  after  what  I  have  told  you,  you  persist  in  pursu 
ing  the  matter,  I  have  but  one  remedy,  and  that  is  to 
flee.  I  beg  you  to  treat  me  generously." 

"  God  knows  I  thought  I  was  treating  you  gener 
ously,  when  I  offered  you  my  heart  and  my  hand," 
said  Dr.  Gilbert,  bitterly  ;  "  but  it  seems  that  a  strap 
ping,  unfledged  boy  is  more  esteemed,  and  I  must  e'en 
take  my  offer  in  my  teeth,  and  walk  home  with  it." 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  203 

"  Can  you,  Dr.  Gilbert — a  man — old  enough  to  be 
my  father — talk  to  me  like  that  without  blushing  ?  I 
bid  you  good  evening ;  "  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  she  bowed,  and  left  Dr.  Gilbert  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  parlor,  alone. 

An  obstruction  placed  in  the  channel  of  a  strong 
will,  and  abruptly  checking  its  flow,  raises,  by  the  re 
flux,  a  power  that  climbs  and  plunges  till  the  current  of 
life  becomes  turbid  and  unwholesome.  It  goes  thus 
madly  back  to  sweep  the  obstruction  away,  and  when 
it  finds  it  unyielding,  it  dashes  over  its  verge  with 
broken  voice  and  volume,  and  ploughs  up  the  filth  that 
sleeps  in  the  beds  of  the  purest  streams.  It  was  thus 
with  the  strong  will  of  Dr.  Gilbert.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  the  step  he  had  taken.  All  the  strong  cur 
rents  of  his  life  had.  for  the  time,  taken  this  new  chan 
nel  ;  and  when  the  irrevocable  word  was  dropped  into 
it,  the  tide  of  a  powerful  life  was  stopped.  It  swelled 
and  piled,  and  then  plunged  madly  over  it,  and  lost,  at 
once,  its  music  and  its  purity.  But  as  streams  thus 
stopped  and  thus  started,  though  still  complaining,  grow 
pure  again,  so  Dr.  Gilbert's  anger  and  mean  jealousy 
subsided  at  length,  and  left  him  subdued,  sad,  ashamed, 
and  acquiescent.  If  he  could  not  have  Miss  Hammett's 
love,  he  must  not  lose  her  respect.  If  her  hand  could 
not  be  his,  her  society  should  not  be  sacrificed,  and  she 
should  see  that  he  could  not  only  be  generous,  but  chiv 
alrous  and  brave. 

Mrs.  Blague  had  been  made  aware  by  Miss  Ham 
mett's  rapid  passage  through  the  hall  that  Dr.  Gilbert 
was  alone,  and  as  he  lingered,  she  walked  into  the 
parlor,  and  found  him  standing  where  Miss  Hammett 


204  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER  : 

had  left  him,  with  the  marks  of  strong  emotion  still 
upon  his  features. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you  will  oblige  me 
by  never  alluding  to  what  you  have  witnessed,  and  by 
bearing  a  message  to  Miss  Hammett."  He  knew  he 
could  rely  upon  his  old  friend,  and,  without  waiting  for 
her  reply,  he  advanced  to  the  table,  and  wrote,  in  pencil, 
a  note  to  the  schoolmistress.  It  was  brief  and  charac 
teristic  :  "  Miss  Hammett :  "Whatever  you  deny  me,  I 
know  you  will  not  refuse  me  the  privilege  of  apologiz 
ing  for  my  inexcusable  rudeness.  Come  down,  and 
permit  me  to  bear  away  with  me  a  measure  of  self- 
respect." 

Mrs.  Blague  took  the  note  to  Miss  Hammett's 
chamber,  and  the  lady  immediately  appeared  in  re 
sponse.  Her  face  was  clothed  with  an  expression  of 
pain,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  The  doctor  ad 
vanced  to  meet  her,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Miss 
Hammett,"  said  he,  "  I  have  been  mean  and  unmanly. 
Will  you  forgive  me  ? "  Her  cold  hand  was  in  his 
strong  grasp,  and  smiling  sadly,  and  looking  gratefully 
and  trustingly  in  his  face,  she  answered,  "  Yes."  As 
the  doctor  looked  into  her  deep,  honest,  blue  eyes,  down 
into  the  true  soul  which  shone  through  them,  and 
thought  in  one  wild  moment  of  the  treasure  forever 
swept  beyond  his  winning,  his  frame  shook  with  power 
ful  emotion.  Oh !  rare  intuition !  The  small,  cold 
hand  grew  uneasy,  and  was  slowly  withdrawn,  and 
again  folded  over  her  heart. 

"  Will  you  be  seated,  Dr.  Gilbert?  "  said  the  young 
woman,  pointing  to  a  chair,  and  taking  one  herself. 
"  As  between  ourselves,  Dr.  Gilbert,"  she  continued, 


AN    AMERICAN    STOKY.  205 

"  every  thing  is  settled.  You  know  my  wishes,  and 
respect  them.  I  take  your  apology  very  gladly,  for  I 
did  not  wish  to  part  with  you,  so  that  we  might  not 
meet  again ;  but  you  have  made  an  allusion  to  some 
one  as  a  favorite  of  mine,  and,  that  no  other  person  may 
suffer  injustice,  I  think  I  should  know  to  whom  you 
allude,  and  be  allowed,  for  his  sake  and  my  own,  to  set 
you  right." 

The  doctor  blushed.  In  fact,  he  was  never  so 
thoroughly  ashamed  in  his  life.  "  Miss  Hammett,  I  beg 
you  not  to  humiliate  me  further,"  said  he.  "  I  spoke 
wildly  and  meanly — outrageously,  if  you  will.  Will 
not  that  do  1 " 

"  I  think  I  have  a  right,"  pursued  the  young  woman, 
"  to  be  more  particular.  You  could  not  have  said  what 
you  did  without  some  conviction,  and  I  wish  to  put 
your  mind  forever  at  rest  on  the  subject.  Tell  me,  Dr. 
Gilbert,  do  you  imagine  that  my  hand  belongs  to  any 
man  here  in  Crampton  1  " 

The  doctor  fidgeted.  "  We  talk  in  confidence,  of 
course,"  said  he.  "  I  knew  that  Arthur  Blague  was  in 
terested  in  you,  very  deeply.  I  knew  that,  at  his  sus 
ceptible  age,  he  could  not  be  much  under  the  same  roof 
with  you  without  being  impressed  by  you.  I  did  not 
know  how  far  the  matter  had  gone,  and  very  naturally 
thought  of  him  when  you  so  readily  and  so  decidedly 
replied  to  my  proposals.  It  irritated  me,  of  course,  to 
feel  that  an  undeveloped  youth,  without  means  and 
without  position,  should  be  able  to  win  that  which  was 
refused  to  me." 

The  doctor  stumbled  through  his  explanation,  and 
Miss  Hammett  received  it  with  a  smile  of  amusement, 


206  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

touched  with  sadness  and  apprehension.  When  he 
closed,  she  said :  "  I  thank  you,  for  myself,  and  on  be 
half  of  Arthur  Blague.  I  confess  to  you  that  he  is  a 
young  man  whom  I  very  warmly  esteem.  It  seems  to 
me  that  he  possesses  the  very  noblest  elements  of  man 
hood,  and  yet  there  is  nothing  that  would  give  me  more 
pain  than  to  know  that  he  has  other  feelings  toward  me 
than  those  of  friendship.  He  has  been  very  kind  to 
me,  and  I  pray  God  that  nothing  may  happen  in  our 
intercourse  to  make  my  residence  with  his  mother  un 
pleasant  to  either  of  us." 

Dr.  Gilbert  rose  to  his  feet.  The  reaction  had 
come,  and  it  was  a  healthy  one — honorable  to  the 
rugged  nature  in  which  it  had  taken  place.  Whether  a 
lingering  memory  of  the  shipping  in  New  York  harbor, 
or  a  reminiscence  of  some  great  naval  battle  that  he  had 
read  about  in  history,  rose  to  him  on  the  moment, 
under  the  spur  of  association,  will  never  be  known  ;  but 
he  said :  "  Well,  Miss  Hammett,  the  deck  is  cleared,  I 
believe  ;  the  dead  are  thrown  overboard,  and  the 
wounded  are  taken  care  of,  and  doing  well."  Then  he 
laughed  a  huge,  strong  laugh,  that  showed  that  his  phys 
ical  system,  at  least,  was  unshaken. 

Miss  Hammett  smiled — glad  that  the  battle  was 
over,  and  particularly  rejoiced  that  the  "  wounded " 
were  doing  so  well.  She  gave  him  her  hand  at  the 
parlor-door,  and  shaking  it  heartily,  he  said  :  "  Let  the 
past  be  buried.  We  shall  get  along  very  well  to 
gether." 

As  he  turned  to  leave  her,  he  saw,  standing  in  the 
street-door  before  him,  Arthur  Blague  in  his  working 
dress.  He  knew  that  Arthur  had  overheard  his  last  words. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  207 

The  poor  fellow  stood  like  one  paralyzed,  and  gave  the 
doctor  his  hand  as  he  passed  out  in  a  state  of  the  most 
painful  embarrassment.  The  doctor  knew  what  it  meant, 
and  went  away  (what  an  exceedingly  mean  and  human 
old  fellow !)  glad  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  the 
young  man  had  got  to  pass  through  the  same  furnace 
that  he  had. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  young  man  had  come 
home  to  pass  the  Sabbath.  Miss  Hammett  met  him 
cordially,  but  saw  at  once  that  there  was  something  in 
the  words  of  Dr.  Gilbert  that  oppressed  him.  In  her 
sweet  endeavors  to  erase  this  impression,  she  only 
drove  still  deeper  into  his  heart  the  arrow  by  which  he 
had  long  been  wounded.  Ah  !  what  charming  torture 
was  that !  What  a  Sabbath  of  unsatisfactory  dreaming 
followed  it !  How  he  listened  for  her  steps  in  her 
chamber  !  How  like  the  singing  of  an  angel  sounded 
her  morning  hymn  !  How  her  face  shone  on  him  as  he 
sat  near  her  at  the  table  !  How  did  heaven  breathe  its 
airs  around  him  as  he  walked  by  her  side  to  the  village 
church  !  How  did  he  lean  back  for  hours  in  his  easy- 
chair  at  home,  with  his  eyes  closed  in  delicious  reverie  ! 
Arthur  Blague  was  nineteen.  Poor  fellow  ! 


208 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

AETHTTE  BLAGUE  IS   INTRODUCED  TO  A  NEW  BOAEDING-HOUSE, 
AND  DAN  BUCK  IS  IXTEODUCED  TO  THE  EEADEE. 

WE  left  Arthur  Blague,  some  chapters  back,  sitting 
on  his  bed  in  the  long  lodging-hall  at  Hucklebury  Run, 
having  the  previous  evening  left  his  bed  and  board  at 
the  house  of  the  proprietor,  under  circumstances  that 
forbade  his  return.  The  lodgers  had  all  turned  out,  and 
were  commencing  their  work  in  the  mill.  The  more 
Arthur  thought  of  the  uncomfortable  night  he  had 
passed,  and  of  the  low  and  degrading  associations  of  the 
human  sty  into  which  circumstances  had  forced  him,  the 
more  unendurable  did  his  position  seem.  There  were 
others  at  the  same  moment  thinking  of,  and  endeavoring 
to  contrive  for,  him,  and  when,  at  his  leisure,  he  entered 
the  mill,  he  found  three  or  four  men,  including  Cheek, 
gathered  around  Big  Joslyn,  and  apparently  urging 
upon  that  eminently  cautious  and  impassive  individual 
some  measure  of  importance.  As  Arthur  came  up, 
they  made  room  for  him,  and  then  Cheek,  as  the  readi 
est  spokesman,  announced  the  matter  in  hand.  "  We've 
been  trying,"  said  he,  "  to  make  Joslyn  take  you  into 
his  house,  and  board  you." 


AN  AMERICAN   STOEY.  209 

Joslyn  was  overshadowed  by  a  great  doubt.  He 
"  didn't  know  what  the  woman  would  say  ;  "  and  the 
setting  up  of  his  will  over  hers  was  a  thing  he  never 
dreamed  of.  Like  gentlemen  with  delegated  authority, 
acting  under  instructions,  he  found  great  difficulty  in 
appearing  to  act  on  his  own  personal  responsibility, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  keeping  within  the  limits  of  his 
power. 

"  I'll  agree  to  any  thing  that  the  woman  will,"  said 
Joslyn  ;  and  it  was  at  last  arranged  that  Arthur  should 
walk  home  and  breakfast  with  the  discreet  husband  and 
father,  and  make  his  application  in  person. 

On  this  conclusion,  Cheek  took  Arthur  aside,  and 
touching  him  significantly  over  the  region  of  the  heart, 
said,  "  Are  you  loose  here  1 " 

"  What  do  you  mean  1  "    inquired  Arthur. 

"  Have  you  hitched  on  anywhere  yet  ?  "  said  Cheek. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  I  mean  have  you  got  a  girl  1 "  exclaimed  the  young 
man.  "  You  see,"  continued  he,  "  all  we  factory  fellers 
have  a  girl.  We  may  marry  'em,  and  we  may  not ; 
but  we  are  all  kind  o'  divided  off,  and  when  we  go  out 
anywhere,  we  have  an  understanding  who  we  are  going 
to  wait  on." 

Arthur  smiled,  and  said  that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  he 
was  without  any  incumbrances  of  the  kind. 

"  Well,  all  I  want  of  you  is  not  to  go  to  hitching  on 
to  Joslyn's  oldest  girl,"  said  Cheek.  "  She  belongs  to 
me.  She  isn't  grown  up  yet,  but  I  spoke  for  her  when 
she  was  a  little  bit  of  a  thing.  You  see,  when  I  was  a 
boy,  I  used  to  hold  her  in  my  lap,  and  have  all  sorts  of 
talks  with  her,  and  then  she  told  me  she  was  going  to 


210  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

wait  for  me  ;  and,  by  George  !  I've  always  stuck  her  to 
it !  I  tell  her  of  it  now,  whenever  I  get  a  chance,  and 
she's  got  so  big  that  she  begins  to  blush  about  it.  Oh ! 
she's  right,  I  tell  you,  and  she's  got  one  of  the  mothers 
— regular  staver." 

"  I  give  you  my  pledge,"  said  Arthur,  "  not  to  in 
terfere  with  any  of  your  rights." 

"  That's  the  talk,"  said  Cheek.  "  If  I  was  going  to 
be  cut  out,  I'd  rather  have  you  do  it  than  any  of  these 
other  fellers ;  but  I've  set  my  heart  on  it,  and  I'm 
bound  to  win.  Now  mind — none  of  your  tricks,"  said 
Cheek,  with  a  good-natured  shake  of  the  finger ;  and 
then  he  went  off  down  stairs  whistling  to  his  work. 

When  the  breakfast  bell  rang,  Big  Joslyn  rolled 
down  his  sleeves,  took  off  his  apron,  and  intimated  to 
Arthur  that  he  was  ready.  All  the  way  to  his  house 
Joslyn  did  not  speak  a  word.  He  felt  that  he  was  run 
ning  a  great  risk  in  taking  a  stranger  to  his  breakfast- 
table,  without  first  consulting  "  the  woman,"  as  he  al 
ways  called  his  wife.  As  he  raised  the  latch,  Arthur 
heard  from  the  inside  the  caution — "  Sh-h-h-h  !  "  In 
stantly  the  husband  and  father  rose  to  his  toes,  and 
entered  his  door  as  noiseless  as  a  cat.  Arthur  had  seen 
Mrs.  Joslyn  before,  and  shook  her  hand  in  silence,  as  if 
he  had  come  in  to  attend  a  funeral.  "  The  woman  " 
gave  him  a  polite  greeting,  and  then  directed  to  her 
husband  a  look  of  inquiry.  Arthur's  eyes  hastily  sur 
veyed  the  breakfast  apartment.  Every  thing  was  as 
neat  as  wax,  and  as  orderly  as  the  little  clock  that  ticked 
in  the  corner. 

"I  have  brought  him  home  to  breakfast,  and  he 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  211 

wants  to  talk  with  you  about  board,"  said  Joslyn,  in  an 
undertone. 

"  Jenny-,  get  another  plate,  and  another  knife  and 
fork,"  said  Mrs.  Joslyn,  and  straightway  the  little  girl 
that  was  "  waiting  "  for  Cheek — a  second  edition  of  her 
spirited  and  enterprising  mother — obeyed  the  command, 
and  the  family  at  once  sat  down  to  their  meal.  Jenny 
was  the  only  one  of  the  large  family  of  children  visible  ; 
the  remainder  were  not  allowed  to  wake  up  until  Mr. 
Joslyn  could  be  got  out  of  the  way  for  the  morning,  and 
she  was  only  permitted  to  open  her  eyes  because  she 
could  assist  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Joslyn  was  one  of  those  high-strung  creatures 
that  are  occasionally  met  with  in  humble  life,  endowed 
with  quick  good  sense,  indomitable  perseverance,  illimit 
able  endurance,  administrative  faculty  sufficient  to  set 
up  a  candidate  for  the  federal  presidency,  and  abundant 
good-nature,  whenever  she  could  have  every  thing  her 
own  way.  Besides,  she  was  good-looking,  and  only 
needed  to  have  been  born  under  kinder  stars,  into  a 
more  gentle  and  refined  circle  of  society,  to  make  a 
splendid  woman.  Gods  !  What  an  apparent  waste  of 
valuable  material  there  sometimes  is  in  such  places ! 

Now  the  moment  her  husband  announced  the  nature 
of  Arthur's  errand,  she  had  scanned  the  possibilities  of 
her  little  dwelling,  rearranged  the  beds  of  the  children, 
got  a  room  cleared  in  imagination,  fixed  upon  the  exact 
number  of  palm-leaf  hats  that  the  price  of  Arthur's 
board  would  relieve  her  from  braiding,  and  was  ready 
with  her  answer  before  her  phlegmatic  husband  had 
helped  Arthur  to  a  plate  of  the  humble  morning 
fare. 


212  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

"  If  Arthur  Blague  can  take  us  as  he  finds  us,  we 
can  take  care  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Joslyn  decidedly. 

"  Just  as  you  say,"  responded  Joslyn,  greatly  re 
lieved  ;  and  so  the  matter  was  regarded  as  settled. 

Joslyn  and  his  wife  ate  their  breakfast,  Arthur 
thought,  with  unexampled  rapidity,  and  pushed  back 
from  the  table,  leaving  him  alone.  "  Don't  you  mind 
any  thing  about  us,"  said  Mrs.  Joslyn.  "  I've  got  to 
attend  to  this  man's  head,  and  this  is  the  only  time  in 
the  day  I  have  to  do  it."  So  she  drove  her  husband 
back  into  a  corner,  ran  a  wet  cloth  over  his  bald  crown, 
wiped  it  dry,  and  then  brought  the  hair  up  over  it  from 
the  temples,  and  braided  the  ends  together  in  an  in 
credibly  short  space  of  time. 

"  I  do  hate  to  have  my  husband  look  like  a  great,  bald- 
headed  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Joslyn,  "  and  it  all  comes  of 
his  wearing  his  woolen  cap  in  the  mill.  I  wish  men 
knew  any  thing.  There  !  Off  with  you  !  The  bell  is 
ringing.  Sh-h-h-h ! " 

Mr.  Joslyn  went  out  on  tiptoe,  leaving  Arthur  to 
arrange  matters  with  his  wife.  She  wished  to  have 
him  understand  definitely,  what  the  size  of  his  room 
would  be,  what  privileges  he  could  have  in  the  family, 
how  late  he  could  be  admitted  at  night,  and  how  much 
she  expected  for  his  board.  While  she  was  talking, 
her  children,  who  seemed  to  understand  exactly  when 
they  were  expected  to  wake  up,  came  tumbling  in,  one 
after  another,  in  their  night-dresses,  until  the  room 
seemed  to  be  full.  The  last  fat  little  fellow  that  ap 
peared  came  in  crying.  He  was  hardly  old  enough  to 
walk,  yet  the  enterprising  mother  said,  "  Sh-h-h-h  !  don't 
wake  the  baby  !  " 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  213 

"  Do  you  like  children  ? "  inquired  the  prolific 
mother. 

"  I  like  them — yes.  You  know  I  have  not  been 
much  used  to  them,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  there's  but  one  way  to 
do  in  this  house,"  she  continued,  "  if  you  don't  like  'em, 
and  that  is,  not  to  pretend  to  like  'em.  They'll  be  all 
over  you  like  leeches  when  you've  been  into  the  river, 
if  you  make  much  of  'em.  Less  racket !  Sh-h-h-h  ! " 

Arthur  departed,  uncertain  as  to  whether  the  place 
would  be  entirely  to  his  liking  and  convenience,  but  quite 
certain  that  he  would  be  more  comfortable  there  than  in 
the  house  of  the  proprietor,  or  at  the  short  commons  of 
the  boarding-house,  with  the  accompanying  lodgings. 

While  these  operations  were  in  progress,  there  was 
an  animated  and  angry  consultation  going  on  between 
Mrs.  Ruggles  and  her  hopeful  daughter  Leonora.  "  I 
tell  you  we  want  to  get  father  real  wrathy  over  this," 
said  Mrs.  Ruggles.  "  The  more  I  think  about  it,  the 
madder  I  get.  I  never  took  such  imperance  from  any 
body  in  my  life,  and  to  think  that  that  great  saucebox 
that  we  took  in,  and  tried  to  do  for,  should  persume  to 
set  himself  up  to  put  us  down,  and  then  to  say  that 
both  of  us  was  fools  !  As  for  that  Hammett  girl,  if  we 
don't  make  Crampton  too  hot  to  hold  her,  then  it  '11  be 
because  she's  got  brass  enough  in  her  face  to  make  a 
kettle,  that's  all.  I  tell  you,  I  won't  be  put  down — not 
by  a  couple  of  factory  hands,  I  tell  you.  I  know  what 
belongs  to  my  persition,  and  I'll  allow  no  understrapper 
to  call  me  a  fool,  rior  to  say,  Why  do  ye  so  ?  " 

Leonora  was  quite  as  angry  as  her  mother,  but 
when  thrown  directly  upon  her  own  resources,  was 


214  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

wiser — at  least  more  cunning.  She  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  write  to  her  father  in  New  York,  a  discreet 
account  of  the  occurrences  which  we  have  recorded,  in 
sisting  particularly  on  the  wound  which  Arthur  had  in 
flicted  upon  her  feelings  by  calling  her  a  fool.  She 
would  not  mention  the  fact  that  the  same  epithet  had 
been  applied  to  her  mother,  because  she  knew  that  that 
would  rather  please  than  offend  him,  and  because  she 
knew  that  the  more  she  mixed  her  mother's  name  with 
the  affair,  the  more  reason  he  would  have  to  suspect  that 
Arthur's  insult  was  not  altogether  without  excuse. 

The  letter  was  written  and  despatched — decidedly 
the  most  powerful  and  well-considered  literary  missive 
that  had  ever  left  Miss  Leonora's  hand.  The  shot  told 
admirably,  and  produced  the  precise  effect  desired.  Old 
Ruggles,  as  he  sat  in  the  little  dirty  hotel  which  he  al 
ways  lived  in  when  in  New  York,  read  the  letter,  and 
was  very  angry.  The  result  of  his  anger  made  itself 
manifest  in  a  letter  he  wrote  to  Arthur,  directing  him 
to  meet  the  Crampton  stage-coach  on  a  certain  day, 
with  two  seats  in  the  wagon. 

Eight  or  ten  days  after  Arthur  had  become  a  mem 
ber  of  Mrs.  Joslyn's  family,  he  started  for  town  with 
the  two-seated  wagon  to  meet  the  returning  proprietor, 
and  such  individual  or  individuals  as  he  might  bring 
with  him.  He  arrived  at  the  Crampton  hotel  just  as 
the  stage  came  in.  The  coach  was  not  wont  to  be 
crowded,  and  it  was  not  overburdened  on  this  occasion. 
Mr.  Ruggles  enjoyed  a  monopoly  of  the  inside,  while 
a  highly-dressed,  stylish-looking  young  man  occupied 
the  box  with  the  driver.  Arthur  watched  the  alighting 
of  the  young  man  with  a  good  deal  of  interest.  There 


AN   AHEKICAN   STOKY.  215 

was  nothing  about  him  of  the  Crampton  stamp.  He 
wore  a  sort  of  jockey  cap,  and  downward,  as  if  carrying 
out  an  idea  begun  in  the  cap,  a  jaunty  coat,  under  which 
flamed  a  very  jaunty  waistcoat  of  red  velvet.  In  his 
hand  he  carried  a  bamboo  cane  with  an  ivory  top, 
carved  in  the  form  of  a  pointer's  head.  His  face  was 
not  offensive,  nor  was  it  prepossessing.  The  chin  was 
heavy,  and  the  nose  Hebrew,  while  the  eyes  were  of 
that  undefinable  color  that  is  sometimes  found  in  con 
nection  with  the  finest  characters,  and  sometimes  with 
the  coarsest — a  kind  of  dirty  gray — but  they  were 
small,  uneasy,  and  wicked. 

Ruggles  did  not  affect  delight  at  meeting  Arthur. 
The  old,  taunting  manner  that  he  was  accustomed  to 
wear  when  angry  with  him,  he  was  either  too  tired  to 
assume,  or  he  thought  it  of  too  little  consequence.  Yet 
Arthur  would  have  been  glad  to  shake  hands  with  him, 
and  approached  him,  ready  to  respond  to  any  greeting 
that  the  proprietor  might  extend.  Ruggles  was  cross  ; 
in  fact,  the  long  ride  had  half-killed  him.  He  had  trav 
elled  directly  through  from  New  York,  without  stop 
ping,  according  to  his  old  custom ;  and  the  event  had 
shown  him  more  than  any  thing  else  how  much  his 
shock  and  sickness  had  shattered  him. 

The  young  man  on  the  box  dropped  his  glossy  boot 
to  the  wheel,  and  leaped  to  the  piazza  of  the  hotel,  and 
then  walked  up  and  down,  whipping  his  trousers  with 
his  bamboo  cane,  and  sucking  the  pointer's  head,  and 
surveying  Crampton  common. 

"  Both  of  those  trunks  go,"  said  Ruggles  to  Arthur, 
and  both  of  them  Arthur  lifted  to  the  wagon.  As  be 
tween  himself  and  the  young  New  Yorker,  Arthur  felt 


216 

that  he  was  at  a  decided  disadvantage.  He  was  not 
well-dressed,  and  the  consciousness  of  the  fact  somehow 
stole  away,  for  the  time,  half  of  his  manhood.  There 
is  nothing  that  will  so  disarm  and  depress  certain  sensi 
tive  natures  as  conscious  inferiority  of  dress.  Until  a 
degree  of  familiarity  with  the  world  has  been  acquired, 
and  a  man  has  learned  that  he  has  a  recognized  place  in 
it,  his  dress  either  holds  him  up  in  his  own  self-respect, 
or  compels  him  into  abject  self-contempt.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  young  stranger's  face  that  indicated  the 
gentleman,  yet  his  dress  was  something  to  be  respected, 
and  Arthur  felt  so  shabby  by  his  side  that  it  seemed  as 
if  the  stranger  must  look  upon  him  as  an  inferior. 

"  Come,  Buck,  get  in,"  said  old  Ruggles,  sharply. 

"  Ah  !  This  is  your  dog-cart,  eh  1  Gad  !  How 
lame  I  am  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Buck,  as  he  raised  himself 
slowly  into  the  wagon,  and  took  his  position  by  the  side 
of  the  proprietor  on  the  back  seat,  and  stuck  the  point 
er's  head  into  his  mouth.  "  Now,  two-forty  !  Hold 
him  in,  and  let  him  trot,"  said  he,  by  way  of  announcing 
that  he  was  ready  for  the  ride  to  Hucklebury  Run. 

The  "  two-forty  "  horse  started  off  at  any  thing  but 
an  ambitious  pace,  and  Mr.  Buck  had  sucked  his  cane 
but  a  short  time,  when  he  said  very  familiarly,  "  Driver, 
how  much  can  you  get  out  of  him  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Arthur  had  ever  been  ad 
dressed  by  this  title,  and  he  did  not  deign  a  reply. 
"  Ruggles,"  said  Buck,  "  what  is  this  driver's  name  ? 
Introduce  me  to  him." 

"  Mr.  Arthur  Blague,"  said  old  Ruggles  with  mock 
politeness ;  "  this  is  Mr.  Dan  Buck,  of  New  York." 

"  Plague,  how  are  you  ?     How's  your  ma'am  ?  ' 


AN   AMEEICAN    6TOKY.  217 

"  Buck,  how  are  you  ?    How's  your  doe  ? " 

"  Eh  ?  " 

"  How's  your  doe  1 " 

"  Don't  hear  you,"  responded  the  imperturbable  Buck, 
and  then  burst  out  pleasantly  into  the  familiar  refrain : 
"  Speak  a  little  louder,  sir,  I'm  rather  hard  o'  hearin'." 

"  Plague  !  I  say  !  Plague  !  "  called  out  Mr.  Buck. 
Arthur  made  no  reply. 

Old  Ruggles  chuckled.  "  Blague,"  said  he  in  a  low 
voice.  "  His  name  is  Blague." 

"  Blague  !  I  say  !  Blague  !  Who  made  your 
boots  1 " 

"  None  of  your  business.     Why  ?  " 

"  Speak  to  a  gentleman  like  that  again,  and  I'll 
knock  your  hat  off,"  said  Buck,  without  the  slightest 
show  of  anger.  "  I  was  only  going  to  ask  you  if  you 
supposed  he  would  have  any  objection  to  your  kicking 
that  horse  with  'em.  Kick  him  smart,  and  I'll  give  you 
a  cent." 

"  I'll  kick  you  for  half  the  money,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Eh  1 " 

"  I'll  kick  you  for  half  the  money,"  said  Arthur 
again,  without  turning  his  head. 

"  Speak  a  little  louder,  sir,  I'm  rather  hard  o'  hear- 
in',"  responded  Mr.  Buck,  with  another  tuneful  explo 
sion  ;  and  then,  subsiding  for  a  moment,  he  burst  out 
with,  "  Blague !  Hullo  !  Blague  !  Where  did  you  get 
your  manners  ?  " 

"  I  borrowed  them,"  replied  Arthur,  "  of  a  fellow 
just  in  from  New  York." 

"  Well  you'd  better  return  'em  then,"  said  Buck. 

"  I'm  doing  it  as  fast  as  possible,"  replied  Arthur. 
10 


218  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

"  Good  boy  !  Good  boy ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dan 
Buck,  tapping  Arthur  on  the  shoulder  with  the  tip  of 
his  cane.  "  You're  some,  that's  a  fact ;  but  tell  me,  oh  ! 
tell  me  before  I  die,  what's  the  price  of  putty  ?  " 

"  Ask  Mr.  Ruggles,"  replied  Arthur.  "  He  has 
just  brought  home  a  very  large  piece." 

"  Who  the  devil  have  you  got  on  this  front  seat 
here  1 "  said  Mr.  Dan  Buck,  turning  to  the  proprietor, 
who  had  sat  very  quietly,  enjoying  the  low  impudence 
of  his  companion,  and  wondering  what  new  spirit  was 
in  possession  of  Arthur.  "  Who  the  devil  is  this  1 " 
said  Mr.  Dan  Buck.  "  I  shall  have  to  lick  him,  pos 
itively  ;  sorry  to  do  it — great  sacrifice — but  necessary." 

"  He's  the  fellow,"  replied  Euggles  in  a  low  tone 
that  did  not  escape  Arthur's  ear,  "that  I  told  you 
about." 

"  S-h-o  !  "  responded  Dan  Buck,  with  a  look  of  sur 
prise. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  ride  to  Hucklebury  Run, 
the  young  man  devoted  himself  entirely  to  Mr.  Rug 
gles.  Although  he  had  made  nothing  by  his  onslaught 
upon  Arthur,  he  was  as  cool  and  self-satisfied  as  if  he 
had  annihilated  him.  There  was  no  sensitiveness — no 
sense  of  shame — that  could  possibly  find  manifestation 
through  the  mask  of  brass  that  encased  his  face.  Ar 
thur  was  amused  to  hear  him  pour  into  the  proprietor's 
ear  the  tales  of  his  exploits  by  flood  and  field.  He  had 
sailed  as  the  captain  of  a  packet,  with  no  end  of  perqui 
sites  ;  won  five  thousand  dollars  on  a  horse-race ;  was 
on  familiar  terms  with  Washington  Irving  ;  had  slaugh 
tered  innumerable  buffaloes  among  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  ;  had  been  partner  in  a  large  jobbing  firm,  and,  on 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  219 

one  occasion,  when  hard  pushed,  had  said  grace  at  table. 
This  last  achievement  seemed  to  strike  him  as  one  of 
the  funniest  pieces  of  business  he  had  ever  been  engaged 
in.  "  Gad  !  "  said  he,  "  I  never  was  so  near  floored  in 
my  life.  Lot  of  women,  you  know,  all  round  the  table, 
with  their  heads  down,  and  the  whites  of  their  eyes 
rolled  up.  I  sat  at  the  head,  you  know,  and  the  old 
woman  of  all  down  to  the  foot.  '  Mr.  Buck,'  says  she, 
putting  down  her  head  lower,  and  rolling  up  her  eyes 
higher,  {  Mr.  Buck,  will  ask  a  blessing  ?  '  Well,  I  vow 
I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  There  they  were,  you  know 
— heads  all  down — eyes  all  rolled  up — and  every  darned 
one  of  'em  with  a  sort  of  squint  on  me.  So,  says  I  to 
myself,  '  Dan  Buck,  where's  your  pluck  1  go  in ! '  Well, 
sir,  I  went  in — didn't  say  much,  you  know,  but  it  an 
swered.  All  I  could  do  to  keep  on  a  long  face.  Oh  !  I 
vow,  I  never  had  such  a  time  in  my  life.  I  thought  I 
should  have  died  laughing  after  I  got  out.  Wasn't  it 
great,  though  ?  "  and  Mr.  Dan  Buck  laughed  uproar 
iously  with  the  memory  of  the  rare  and  eminently 
funny  exploit. 

How  much  of  this  stuff  old  Ruggles  believed,  did 
not  appear,  but  as  Mr.  Dan  Buck  had  flattered  him  on 
all  convenient  occasions  during  the  journey  home,  he 
felt  bound  to  appear  as  if  he  believed  the  whole  of  it. 
As  for  Arthur,  he  knew  that  Dan  Buck  was  lying,  and 
Dan  Buck  knew  that  Arthur  understood  him  perfectly, 
though  he  was  entirely  undisturbed  by  the  fact. 

Arriving  at  the  factory,  the  proprietor  alighted,  and 
told  Arthur  to  go  on  to  the  house  with  Dan  Buck  and 
the  trunks.  As  the  horse  slowly  climbed  the  hill,  Dan 
leaned  forward  to  Arthur,  and  pointing  over  his  shoulder 


220 

with  his  ivory  pointer's  head,  said,  "  Cussed  old  hunks, 
how  shall  we  manage  him  ?  " 

"  How  will  he  manage  us  ?  is  the  question,  I  be 
lieve,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  Gad !  when  I  can't  manage  my  boss,  I  leave,  I 
do,"  said  the  young  man  decidedly. 

"  You'll  find  this  one  a  hard  customer,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Soap's  the  word,  my  boy  ;  soap's  the  word. 
Lord  !  I  can  stuff  his  old  carcass  so  full  that  he  won't 
know  his  head  from  a  bushel-basket.  I've  tried  it,  and 
got  his  gauge." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  here  ?  "  inquired  Ar 
thur. 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  sort  o'  clerk  it,  I  suppose,"  re 
sponded  Dan  Buck.  "  Ruggles  says  you've  been  abus 
ing  his  dry-goods,  and  he's  going  to  promote  you." 

"  You  are  to  take  my  place,  I  presume,"  said  Ar 
thur,  "  and  I  am  to  go  back  into  my  old  tracks.  I  un 
derstand  it" 

"  I  reckon  that's  it.  Now  tell  a  feller  :  is  there  any 
chance  to  knock  down  1 " 

"  Knock  down !  "  repeated  Arthur  with  a  tone  of 
inquiry.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Ah  !  green's  the  color,  eh  ?  very  !  '  I  understand. 
By  the  way,  who  is  that  fat  old  lollypop  in  the  door 
yonder  ? " 

"  That  is  Mrs.  Ruggles — your  landlady,  and  the 
wife  of  the  proprietor." 

"  Come  to  my  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer  !  "  ex 
claimed  the  young  man  in  a  low  tone,  and  with  such  a 
feint  of  an  embrace,  that  Arthur  laughed  in  spite  of 
himself,  while  Mr.  Dan  Buck's  face  had  never  been 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  221 

longer  than  at  that  moment.  "  Now,"  said  Buck,  in  an 
undertone  to  Arthur,  "  see  me  do  it." 

As  the  wagon  drove  up  to  the  door,  Mr.  Dan  Buck 
leaped  from  it,  and  rushing  up  to  Mrs.  Ruggles,  seized 
her  hand,  and  shaking  it  very  heartily,  exclaimed : 
"  Why,  Mrs.  Cadwallader  !  How  did  you  come  here  ? 
I'm  delighted  to  see  you — perfectly  delighted." 

Mrs.  Ruggles  was  quite  overcome.  The  greeting 
was  so  unexpected,  arid  so  violent,  that,  to  speak  fig 
uratively,  she  was  fairly  carried  off  her  feet.  All  she 
could  say  was  :  "  You've  got  the  advantage  of  me." 

"  You  don't  pretend  to  say,  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  that 
you  don't  remember  me?  That's  too  cruel ;  "  and  Mr. 
Dan  Buck  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  wilt  utterly 
under  the  crushing  disappointment. 

"  You've  made  a  mistake,"  said  the  woman  amiably. 
"  My  name's  Ruggles — Mrs.  Ruggles.  I  never  was  a 
Cadwell." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  two  ladies  can  look  so  much 
alike,  and  not  even  be  sisters  1  I  would  have  sworn 
you  were  the  wife  of  my  friend,  General  Cadwallader. 
Then  you  are  Mrs.  Ruggles,  and  I'm  to  be  a  member 
of  your  family !  It  is  very  pleasant,  I  assure  you,  for 
me  to  meet  a  face  that  so  much  reminds  me  of  one  of 
my  dear  friends,  here  among  strangers." 

"  Be  you  the  young  man  that's  going  to  live  with 
us?"  inquired  Mrs.  Ruggles,  with  patronizing  sweet 
ness. 

"  Yes,  I  be,"  replied  Dan  Buck,  with  the  pointer's 
head  between  his  teeth,  and  his  eye  half-shut,  looking 
over  his  shoulder  at  Arthur  Blague. 

"  Well,  walk  right  in  then,  and  make  yourself  to 


222 

home,"  said  Mrs.  Ruggles,  heartily  ;  and  turning  about, 
she  sailed  into  the  house,  calling,  "  Leonora  !  Leonora  !  " 

Dan  Buck  gave  Arthur  a  comical  look,  followed  her 
in,  and  \vas  introduced  to  Leonora,  who  received  him 
with  a  most  profound  courtesy.  In  the  mean  time, 
Arthur  had  deposited  the  trunks  upon  the  piazza,  and 
driven  off. 

"  Who  is  this  insolent  fellow  that  drove  us  over  1  " 
inquired  Mr.  Dan  Buck. 

"  Now  you  don't  say,"  said  Mrs.  Ruggles,  in  alarm, 
"  that  he  has  been  treating  you  to  any  of  his  imperance, 
do  you  ?  It  ain  't  possible,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Never  was  treated  so  in  my  life — thought  the  fel 
low  was  drunk  or  crazy.  I  cut  one  man  all  to  pieces 
with  a  bowie-knife  once,  on  a  smaller  provocation  than 
he  gave  me  to-day  ;  but  Mr.  Ruggles  was  in  the  wagon, 
you  know,  and  I  would  not  make  him  witness  such  a 
scene.  But,  gad  !  I'll  chastise  him — I'll  lick  him  before 
I've  been  here  a  week,  if  he  gives  me  any  more  of  his 
jaw." 

"  1  wish  you  would,"  said  Leonora  savagely. 

"  You  leave  me  alone  for  that.  Don't  bother  your 
little  head  about  it,  now  !  I'll  take  care  of  him." 

Mrs.  Ruggles'  heart  was  full.  Leonora  felt  at 
tracted  to  the  gallant  and  stylish  stranger  at  once. 

She  would  achieve  a  grand  triumph  over  Arthur 
Blague  through  him,  or  die  in  the  attempt. 

Dan  Buck  was  delighted  with  his  new  home ;  and 
before  Mr.  Ruggles  had  made  his  appearance  within  his 
own  door,  he  had  succeeded  in  establishing  the  most 
cordial  relations  between  himself  and  that  portion  of  the 
family  which  he  had  collectively  designated  as  the  "  dry- 


AN   AMEEICAN    STOKY.  223 

goods."  The  mother  reminded  him  more  and  more  of 
Mrs.  Gen.  Cadwallader,  as  the  acquaintance  grew.  The 
peculiar  smile — the  tone  of  voice — the  manner — the 
style  of  carriage — each  brought  forth  from  the  enthusi 
astic  young  man  an  exclamation  of  wonder,  that  two 
women  who  were  not  only  without  blood  relation  to 
each  other,  but  without  any  knowledge  of  each  other, 
could  be  so  much  alike.  The  measure  of  "  soap  "  was 
filled,  at  last,  by  his  assurance  that  "  in  her  day,  Mrs. 
Gen.  Cadwallader  was  the  most  splendid  woman  in  New 
York." 

Leonora  was  a  fac-simile  of  his  own  sister  Carrie,  of 
whose  personal  charms  and  accomplishments  he  bragged 
as  if  she  had  been  a  favorite  horse.  "  Gad  !  "  exclaimed 
Dan  Buck,  "  don't  the  fellers  open  their  eyes  when  she 
comes  out  7  But  they  know  me — they  do  ;  and  they 
know  I  won't  stand  any  of  their  humbug.  Oh  !  you 
ought  to  see  'em  hang  round,  and  try  to  get  introduced. 
I  was  counting  'ern  over  the  other  day,  just  before  I 
started,  and  I'll  be  darned  if  I  wasn't  surprised  to  find 
ninety-five  bottles  of  brandy  that  thesri  fellers  had  sent 
to  me  to  get  me  to  introduce  'em  to  my  sister.  No, 
you  don't,  says  I.  I'll  take  your  liquor,  but  visitors 
are  requested  not  to  muss  the  goods  unless  they  wish 
to  purchase." 

Mr.  Dan  Buck  expected  that  he  should  call  Leonora 
"  Carrie "  half  the  time ;  and  he  begged  her  not  to 
be  offended  if  he  should  do  so.  If  she  would  only  re 
gard  him  as  a  brother,  his  happiness  would  be  complete. 
When  supper  came  on,  and  all  sat  down  at  the  table, 
the  young  man  began  and  executed  a  series  of  romances, 
in  which  he  invariably  personated  the  central  figure, 


224 

that  quite  eclipsed  any  thing  of  which  the  Ruggles  fam 
ily  had  ever  heard.  He  laughed  immensely  at  his  own 
\vit,  and  as  every  thing  he  uttered  was  interlarded  with 
choice  bits  of  flattery,  tossed  in  about  equal  proportions 
to  father,  mother,  and  daughter,  the  meal  was  one  of  the 
most  delightfully  memorable  ever  enjoyed  in  that  little 
mansion.  Arthur  Blague  was  lugged  in  on  all  conven 
ient  occasions,  to  illustrate  some  ludicrous  point  of  a 
story ;  and  the  voluble  drollery  of  the  fellow  kept  the 
whole  family  in  irresistible  laughter.  Finally,  Mrs. 
Ruggles  assured  him  that  she  regarded  him  as  a  "  valu 
able  accusation  to  the  society  of  Hucklebury  Run,"  at 
which  he  said  "  Very,"  with  a  wink  at  Leonora,  which 
made  that  young  lady  spill  her  tea  with  giggling. 

The  next  day  old  Ruggles  undertook  to  introduce 
the  young  man  to  his  duties.  It  is  not  to  be  denied 
that  the  proprietor  had  very  serious  misgivings  about 
his  new  clerk,  who  was  altogether  too  talkative — too 
familiar — too  presuming.  He  did  not  like  being  called 
"  Ruggles  "  by  any  one  in  his  employ,  or  to  have  any 
assumed  superiority  over  himself  among  his  dependents. 
He  saw  that  the  fellow  who  had  palmed  himself  off  upon 
him  in  New  York  as  a  "  struggling  young  man,  ready 
to  undertake  the  humblest  employment  for  the  sake  of 
honestly  earning  his  bread,"  had  no  element  of  reverence 
in  his  composition,  and  that  he  could  not  be  "  snubbed." 
In  vain  were  all  his  endeavors  to  establish  any  distance 
between  the  young  man  and  himself.  It  was — "  Look 
here,  Ruggles,"  "  What  do  you  say,  Ruggles  1 "  or, 
"  Hadn't  we  better  do  so  and  so," — as  if  he  had  just  be 
come  a  partner  in  the  concern,  and  had  brought  in  and 
invested  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  the  business. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  225 

Mr.  Ruggles  was  irritable  and  sick.  His  journey 
had  overtasked  him ;  and  when  he  saw  how  orderly 
matters  had  been  conducted  by  Arthur  in  his  absence, 
he  cursed  his  stupidity  in  yielding  to  the  importunities 
of  his  daughter.  He  was  the  more  vexed  and  disgusted 
because  he  felt  that  his  old  energy  was  gone — that  he 
was  in  a  great  degree  a  broken  man — that  he  could  not 
be  again  the  omnipresent,  all-sufficient  power  in  his  own 
concern  that  he  had  been.  He  found  no  difficulty,  how 
ever,  with  Arthur's  assistance,  in  making  Mr.  Dan  Buck 
acquainted  with  the  details  of  his  business.  The  young 
New  Yorker  was  ready  with  his  pen,  and  though  ap 
parently  without  a  great  degree  of  business  education, 
possessed  a  quick  and  ready  insight  into  business  affairs, 
that  gave  him  a  command  of  his  duties  at  once. 

Arthur  at  once  resumed,  with  a  degree  of  cheerful 
ness  which  he  did  not  himself  anticipate,  his  old  duties 
as  a  regular  operative  in  the  mill.  It  was  a  relief  to  be 
less  confined  to  the  society  of  the  proprietor.  Though 
their  relations  to  each  other  had  been  greatly  changed, 
he  had  never  learned  to  respect  the  man  whom  accident 
and  helplessness  alone  could  make  tolerable,  but  always 
felt  oppressed  and  uncomfortable  when  in  his  presence. 

10* 


226  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 


CHAPTEK   XIII. 

DAN  BUCK   GOES  TO    CHUKCH    AND    RECOGNIZES    AN    OLD    AC 
QUAINTANCE. 

WEEKS  came  and  went  over  the  busy  hamlet  of 
Hucklebury  Run,  and  Mr.  Dan  Buck  had  become  not 
altogether  an  unpopular  member  of  that  little  commu 
nity.  The  boys  delighted  in  his  stories,  and  he  said 
such  droll  things  to  the  girls  that  they  could  talk  of 
little  else.  He  had  disseminated  the  idea,  among  the 
operatives  generally,  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  merchant 
of  immense  wealth,  and  that,  being  a  little  wild  in  New 
York,  his  father  had  consigned  him  to  old  Ruggles  for 
reformation.  If  "  the  governor  "  would  only  send  him 
his  horse  and  his  dogs,  he  might  go  to  the  devil,  and 
New  York  with  him  :  he  could  get  along. 

It  was  Mrs.  Ruggles'  special  ambition  to  get  the 
young  New  Yorker  to  go  to  the  Crampton  church  with 
her  and  Leonora.  Mr.  Ruggles  found  himself  so  tired 
and  so  weak,  that  he  had  no  disposition  to  take  his  naps 
under  the  soothing  effects  of  Mr.  Wilton's  eloquence, 
and  had  relinquished  church-going  altogether.  For  this, 


AN   AMEEICAK   STOKY.  227 

the  wife  and  daughter  would  not  have  cared  at  all,  if 
Mr.  Dan  Buck  had  not  been  quite  as  averse  to  accom 
panying  them  as  the  proprietor  himself.  The  young 
man  always  dressed  himself  elaborately,  took  his  cane, 
and  walked  off  into  the  woods,  and  spent  the  day  as 
lazily  as  possible.  At  last,  Mrs.  Ruggles  took  him 
seriously  to  task  for  his  delinquencies.  Dan  Buck  as 
sured  her  that  there  had  been  a  time  when  he  was  con 
stant  at  the  ministrations  of  the  Gospel,  and  a  member 
of  the  Sunday-school ;  but  on  one  occasion  he  had  a 
very  dear  aunt  who  dropped  dead  in  church,  and  since 
that  time  he  had  found  it  very  difficult  to  bring  himself 
to  enter  a  sacred  edifice.  He  could  not  sit  down  in  a 
church,  in  fact, without  thinking  about  the  death  of  his  aunt, 
and  constantly  suffering  from  the  apprehension  that  he 
should  meet  with  a  similar  fate.  "  I  know,"  said  Dan 
Buck,"  that  lightning  never  strikes  twice  in  three  places, 
but  I  can't  help  my  feelings." 

At  last,  however,  his  anxiety  to  see  Miss  Mary 
Hammett,  of  whom  the  operatives  had  told  him  much, 
and  against  whom  Mrs.  Ruggles  and  her  daughter  were 
constantly  uttering  their  slanders,  overcame  his  fear  of 
sudden  death,  and  he  announced  his  determination  to 
"  try  it  on  once."  It  was  a  very  happy  Sabbath  morn 
ing  for  Mrs.  Ruggles.  The  old  carryall  was  brought 
out — a  heavy  vehicle,  with  two  seats  and  a  top — and 
the  double  of  Mrs.  Gen.  Cadwallader  took  the  back  seat 
to  herself,  while  Leonora  and  Mr.  Dan  Buck  occupied 
the  other.  Dan  was  in  very  high  spirits,  considering 
the  character  of  the  day,  the  capacity  of  the  horse,  and 
the  apprehensions  which  the  death  of  his  aunt  so  power 
fully  excited  in  him.  He  turned  out  of  the  road  occa- 


228 

sionally,  and  frightened  Mrs.  Ruggles  with  the  idea  that 
the  carriage  was  about  to  be  overset.  He  whipped  the 
horse  into  a  rim,  and  then,  winding  the  reins  around  his 
hands,  and  leaning  back  as  if  he  had  in  hand  something 
immense  in  the  way  of  animal  power  and  spirit,  shouted, 
"  Take  care  !  take  ca-a-a-re  !  want  to  kill  another  man, 
don't  you  ?  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Ruggles  suffered  pitifully.  She  declared 
she  was  never  so  "  scat "  in  her  life,  while  Dan  Buck 
and  Leonora  had  the  pleasant  part  of  the  ride  all  to 
themselves,  and  seemed  to  understand  each  other  per 
fectly.  Leonora  was,  in  fact,  very  wild.  Pier  mother 
declared  that  she  "  acted  as  if  she  was  possessed."  She 
laughed  at  all  Dan  Buck's  drolleries,  declared  herself 
ready  to  be  turned  over,  hoped  the  horse  would  run 
away,  and  performed  various  most  unladylike  feats, 
simply  because  her  conduct  amused  Dan  Buck,  and 
frightened  and  vexed  her  mother. 

In  the  church,  the  young  man  was  the  impersonation 
of  gravity.  Of  all  the  solemn  faces  that  greeted  the 
Crampton  pastor  that  morning,  there  was  none  of 
greater  length — certainly  none  of  greater  sanctimonious 
ness — than  that  which  rose  above  the  shoulders  of  Dan 
Buck  ;  yet  for  some  reason  Miss  Leonora  could  hardly 
behave  decently.  When  the  hymn  was  given  out,  the 
young  man  drew  a  plump  song-book  from  his  pocket, 
and  politely  handed  it  to  Leonora,  opened  at  "  Betsy 
Baker."  He  whispered  "  Amen  "  and  "  Hallelujah  " 
to  all  the  pastor's  emphatic  utterances,  so  that  none 
but  Leonora  could  hear  him ;  and  the  girl  had  not  self- 
command  enough  to  keep  within  the  bounds  of  decent 
behaviour. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  229 

The  sermon  was  almost  finished,  when  he  seemed  to 
be  suddenly  arrested  by  the  turning  of  a  head,  not  far 
before  him.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had  arrived  in 
Crampton,  there  was  an  expression  of  surprise  upon  his 
face.  Leonora  caught  the  expression,  and,  directing  her 
eyes  to  the  object  which  had  so  absorbed  him,  found  it 
to  be  nothing  less  than  Mary  Hammett  herself.  Le 
onora  was,  of  course,  disturbed.  That  something  had 
produced  a  profound  impression  upon  the  young  man 
was  very  evident.  After  observing  her  intently  for  some 
minutes,  and  moving  in  his  seat  to  obtain  a  better  view, 
he  leaned  over  to  Leonora,  and  asked  her  who  she  was. 

"  She  is  that  Hammett  girl,"  said  Leonora,  with  a 
sneer. 

"  The  Devil !  "  said  Mr.  Dan  Buck. 

When  the  service  was  completed,  and  the  congrega 
tion  crowded  from  their  pews  into  the  aisles,  to  the 
utter  consternation  of  Mrs.  Ruggles  and  her  daughter, 
Dan  Buck  left  them  abruptly,  and,  rushing  to  the  side 
of  Mary  Hammett,  took  her  hand  with  much  apparent 
respect,  and  greeted  her  as  an  old  acquaintance.  They 
saw  Mary  Hammett's  face  grow  ashy  pale,  and  noticed 
that  it  was  with  great  exertion  that  she  kept  herself 
from  falling.  They  saw  him  leaning  down,  and  talking 
to  her  in  a  low  tone,  intended  only  for  her  ear.  They 
saw  that  she  made  no  reply,  but  that  she  listened  for 
every  word,  and  paid  no  regard  to  any  one  else.  Then 
they  saw  her  lift  her  pale  face  to  his  in  silent  appeal, 
which,  as  he  continued  to  talk,  reddened  into  an  ex 
pression  of  indignation.  As  they  came  out  of  the 
church,  he  glided  away  from  her,  and  she,  joined  by 
Arthur  Blague,  walked  off  to  her  home. 


230  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEK: 

Mrs.  Ruggles  and  Leonora  were  dumb  with  aston 
ishment  and  vexation.  The  horse  and  carryall  were 
brought  before  the  door,  and  Dan  Buck  helped  the 
women  to  their  seats,  and  drove  off.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken  until  they  had  passed  the  bounds  of  the  village, 
when  Mrs.  Ruggles,  unable  to  restrain  herself  longer, 
burst  out  with,  "  What  was  you  doing  with  that  Ham- 
mett  girl  ?  " 

"  One  of  my  cussed  blunders,"  replied  Dan  Buck. 
"  You  know  how  I  thought  you  were  Mrs.  Gen.  Cad- 
wallader,  when  I  first  saw  you.  Well,  I  got  into  just 
such  another  mess  as  that.  I  would  have  sworn  she 
was  a  cousin  of  mine — a  poor  girl  that  got  deceived, 
you  know — feller  took  advantage  of  her — you  under 
stand.  Feller  wouldn't  marry  her,  and  I  cowhided  him 
— all  but  killed  him.  He  went  to  Texas,  and  was 
blowed  up  in  a  steamboat,  and  she  went  off,  the  Lord 
knows  where.  I  thought  I'd  found  her.  You  see,  it 
was  a  good  many  years  ago,  and  I'd  had  a  chance  to 
forget  her.  I  vow  I  never'll  speak  to  another  girl  till 
I've  been  introduced  to  her,  as  long  as  I  live." 

Now  Mr.  Dan  Buck  could  not  but  be  conscious  that 
Mrs.  Ruggles  and  her  daughter  thought  he  was  lying. 
He  knew  that  he  was  not  self-possessed,  according  to  his 
habit,  and  felt  that  they  received  his  words  with  incre 
dulity. 

"  What  made  her  look  up  to  you  so  ?  "  inquired 
Leonora,  who  had  been  quite  impressed  with  that  part 
of -the  scene. 

"  Why,  you  see,  I  told  her  that  she  needn't  try  to 
make  me  think  that  she  wasn't  Jane  Buck,  and  that 
Jenny  had  a  mole  under  her  left  eye,  which  I  should 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  231 

know  anywhere.  Then  she  lifted  up  her  face,  and  I 
knew  it  was  all  day  with  me — face  as  smooth  as  the 
back  of  your  hand.  Did  you  see  how  she  blushed  to 
have  me  look  at  her  1  Gad !  I  wouldn't  have  had  it 
happen  for  the  world ;  and  there  was  all  Crampton 
looking  on,  and  seeing  me  talking  to  her,  and  everybody 
will  think  that  she's  some  acquaintance  of  mine.  Just 
my  luck,  always  getting  into  some  such  a  scrape  as 
that.  I  felt  just  as  sure  when  I  went  to  church  that 
something  would  happen ;  knew  I  should  drop  down 
dead  in  some  way  or  other." 

Leonora  leaned  over  to  Mr.  Dan  Buck,  and  whis 
pered  in  his  ear,  "  You — lie — sir" 

Then  Dan  Buck  began  to  swear.  He  called  upon 
himself  the  most  terrific  judgments,  and  renounced  all 
hope  of  a  happy  hereafter,  if  he  had  ever  seen  the 
woman  before,  or  ever  heard  her  name  until  he  had 
heard  it  in  Crampton.  From  this  condition  of  over 
whelming  indignation,  he  came  down,  at  last,  by  an 
artful  gradation  to  one  of  injured  innocence.  This  was 
his  last  resort,  and  it  was  successful.  When  he  began 
to  talk  about  turning  his  back  upon  Hucklebury  Run 
forever,  and  leaving  friends  who  had  become  inexpres 
sibly  dear  to  him,  because  they  doubted  his  word  of 
honor,  mother  and  daughter  surrendered  without  con 
ditions  ;  and  before  they  drove  up  to  the  door  of  the 
family  mansion,  the  young  man  had  entirely  recovered 
his  spirits. 

Others  had  noticed  this  interview  between  Dan  Buck 
and  Mary  Hammett,  of  course ;  and  she,  in  her  truth 
fulness,  was  almost  defenceless,  when  inquired  of  con 
cerning  her  relations  to  him.  She  could  not  deny  that 


232  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

she  had  seen  him  before.  She  only  begged  those  who 
questioned  her  not  to  insist  on  her  answering  them ; 
and  as  all  saw  that  the  matter  distressed  her,  they  were 
well-bred  enough  to  drop  the  subject.  Whatever  may 
have  been  their  relations  to  each  other,  the  meeting 
filled  her  with  pain,  and  a  vague  apprehension  of  ap 
proaching  evil.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  calamities 
would  have  no  end.  Her  experience  with  Dr.  Gilbert 
had  left  upon  her  a  sad  impression,  and  had  disturbed 
the  current  of  her  life.  She  felt  at  no  liberty  to  look  to 
him  for  further  counsel.  She  could  not  but  be  aware, 
in  some  degree,  of  the  absorbing  affection  which  Arthur 
entertained  for  her,  and  this  troubled  her  more  than  her 
unpleasant  passage  with  Dr.  Gilbert.  To  be  greeted  at 
last  by  one  who  knew  her,  and  who  had  her  in  his 
power,  quite  overwhelmed  her. 

Mary  went  to  her  room,  and,  with  such  calmness  as 
she  could  assume,  recalled  the  words  that  Mr.  Dan 
Buck  had  spoken  to  her.  "  Mary,"  he  had  said  with 
offensive  familiarity,  "  you  see  that  I  know  you.  Mum's 
the  word  with  me,  of  course.  Very  easy  to  write  and 
post  the  old  man — thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket — but 
Dan  Buck  knows  a  trick  worth  two  of  that.  We'll 
have  a  laugh  in  our  sleeves  off  here  by  ourselves.  Per 
haps  you'll  be  able  to  speak  to  me  now — know  where 
you  live,  and  will  call  round.  When  will  it  be  most 
convenient  ?  " 

These  little  sentences  he  had  dropped  into  her  ear 
as  a  man  would  drop  pebbles  into  a  pool,  waiting  to  see 
them  strike  the  bottom,  and  marking  the  ripples  they 
awoke  upon  the  surface.  In  all  his  language,  there  was 
something  intended  beyond  its  literal  interpretation. 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  233 

The  impression  upon  her  was  precisely  as  if  he  had 
said :  "  Mary,  you  see  that  I  know  you,  and  that  you 
are  in  my  power.  I  will  take  my  revenge  for  your 
contempt  of  me  in  other  years,  in  some  way,  either  by 
discovering  you  to  those  who  wish  to  find  you,  and 
whom  you  wish  to  avoid,  or  you  shall  favor  me — Dan 
Buck — with  your  society."  There  was  something  that 
went  further  than  this — that  came  to  her  from  his  hot 
breath,  voiceless  and  inarticulate,  but  more  dreadful 
than  all. 

As  for  Dan  Buck,  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Ruggles  and  Leonora  quickly  enough 
to  meet  his  impatient  wishes.  The  moment  the  horse 
was  out  of  his  hands,  he  took  his  cane  for  a  stroll.  He 
was  excited  and  exultant.  Crampton,  which  had  begun 
to  grow  very  tiresome  to  him,  had  suddenly  become  a 
very  interesting  place.  He  found  a  woman  in  his 
power — the  woman  of  all  the  world  whom  he  would 
have  chosen.  Coolly  he  recalled  the  scene  of  the  morn 
ing,  and  then  as  coolly  he  undertook  to  calculate  how  he 
could  make  the  most  of  the  knowledge  he  had  ac 
quired. 

The  conclusions  at  which  the  young  man  arrived 
during  his  Sunday  afternoon  reflections,  will  be  made 
apparent  in  the  interview  which  he  had  determined  upon 
having  with  Miss  Hammett.  A  few  days  passed  away, 
during  which,  by  ardent  devotion  to  Leonora  and  her 
mother,  he  succeeded  in  driving  away  the  cloud  with 
which  the  events  of  the  Sabbath  had  shadowed  their 
spirits.  One  night  he  announced  his  intention  of  walk 
ing  to  Crampton  to  see  his  tailor,  hoping  "  by  all  that 
was  good  and  holy  "  that  he  shouldn't  run  against  a 


234 

schoolma'arn,  or  any  of  that  sort  of  cattle,  and  asking 
Leonora  to  pray  for  him. 

Mr.  Dan  Buck  was  undertaking,  as  he  felt,  rather 
a  hazardous  experiment — at  least  one  of  doubtful  issue. 
It  summoned  into  action  all  the  bad  boldness  of  his 
nature,  and  required  all  the  hardness  and  insensitiveness 
he  had  acquired  in  years  of  unprincipled  and  unbridled 
living.  He  knocked  at  Mrs.  Blague's  door,  boldly 
announced  his  name,  and  requested  to  see  Miss  Ham 
mett.  Now  Mrs.  Blague  had  already  been  directed  by 
Mary  to  refuse  her  to  Mr.  Dan  Buck,  if  he  should  ever 
call.  Further  than  this,  she  had  made  Mrs.  Blague 
promise  that  if  he  should  ever  find  his  way  into  the 
house  and  into  her  presence,  she  (Miss  Hamrnett)  should 
not  be  left  alone  with  him.  Mrs.  Blague  had  agreed 
faithfully  to  do  as  Mary  desired,  but  when  she  met  Dan 
Buck  face  to  face,  her  determination  faded  at  once. 
There  was  that  in  his  eye  and  manner  which  showed 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  being  denied.  He  was  in  the 
hall  and  in  the  parlor,  before  poor,  stammering  Mrs. 
Blague  could  command  her  tongue  at  all.  She  felt  that 
she  could  do  nothing  with  such  a  man  as  he,  and,  in 
stead  of  turning  him  out  of  her  house  as,  in  imagination, 
she  had  been  doing  all  the  week,  with  certain  very 
lively  and  uncomfortable  fleas  in  his  ear,  she  went  di 
rectly  to  Mary  Hammett's  room,  and  told  her  with  al 
most  a  breathless  fright  that  Mr.  Buck  was  in  the  parlor, 
and  wished  to  see  her. 

"  I  can't  go  down — I  will  not  go  down,"  exclaimed 
Mary,  in  great  excitement.  "  You  must-  tell  him,  Mrs. 
Blague,  that  I  am  sick,  and  cannot  see  him — that  he 
must  excuse  me." 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  235 

Mrs.  Blague  left  Mary  very  hesitatingly,  and  de 
scended  the  stairs,  but  before  she  reached  them,  she 
heard  steps  retreating  through  the  hall,  and  knew  that 
Dan  Buck  had  been  listening.  She  found  him,  how 
ever,  coolly  whipping  his  trousers  with  his  cane,  and 
devoutly  regarding  a  picture  of  the  Holy  Family  upon 
the  wall. 

"Miss  Hammett  wishes  me  to  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Blague  tremblingly,  "  that  she  is  sick,  and  that  you 
must  excuse  her  to-night." 

Dan  Buck  laughed.  "  That's  good,  now — excellent ! " 
exclaimed  he.  "  Why,  madam,"  he  continued,  "  she 
would  not  miss  seeing  me  to-night  for  any  money.  We 
are  old  friends,  we  are ;  and  she's  only  fooling  you. 
You  go  straight  back  to  her,  and  tell  her  that  I  haven't 
any  time  to-night  for  jokes,  or  I  would  indulge  her. 
Tell  her,  too,  that  I  have  something  very  important  to 
say  to  her.  She'll  understand  it." 

All  this  Mr.  Dan  Buck  spoke  in  a  loud  tone,  con 
scious,  apparently,  that  Mary  Hammett  was  listening 
above,  and  desirous  that  she  should  hear  every  word. 
Mary  knew  that  the  material  of  which  Mrs.  Blague  was 
made,  could  not  withstand  him,  and  by  a  desperate  im 
pulse — before  the  lady  could  start  on  her  way  back — 
she  flew  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  slid  down  the  steps 
as  if  she  had  been  a  sprite,  and  stood  before  her  perse 
cutor,  her  eyes  flashing  with  anger. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  sir  1 "  she  inquired, 
standing  before  him,  every  fibre  of  her  frame  quivering 
with  excitement. 

Dan  Bucfe  answered  not  a  word,  but  coolly  pointed 
to  Mrs.  Blague. 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

"  Mrs.  Blague  will  remain  with  me,"  said  Miss 
Hammett  firmly. 

"  It  makes  very  little  difference  with  me  whether  she 
stays  or  goes,"  said  he,  coolly.  "  I  rather  think  you 
wouldn't  like  to  have  her  hear  all  that  will  pass  be 
tween  you  and  me.  I'm  sure  if  you  can  stand  it,  I 
can."  And  then  he  whipped  his  trousers  again,  and 
walked  off  with  the  pointer's  head  between  his  lips,  and 
took  another  view  of  the  Holy  Family. 

Miss  Hammett  grasped  Mrs.  Blague's  hand,  drew 
her  to  the  sofa,  and  both  sat  down.  Mr.  Buck  turned 
around,  looked  at  them  for  a  moment,  and  said  with  a 
sneer,  "  It  won't  work." 

"  If  you  are  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Buck,"  said  Mary 
Hammett,  "  you  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  that 
Mrs.  Blague  should  not  hear ;  and  now,  if  you  have  any 
business  with  me,  I  beg  you  to  despatch  it,  and  leave 
me." 

The  young  man  drew  a  chair  deliberately  in  front 
of  the  women,  and  sat  down.  "  Now  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  a  story — one  of  the  funniest  things  you  ever  heard," 
said  he.  "  Once  there  was  an  old  man  who  had  a  great 
deal  of  money,  and  lived  in  a  splendid  house,  and  kept 
a  splendid  store,  full  of  clerks  and  porters,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  his  clerks  and  porters  weren't  good 
enough  for  him  to  tread  on.  "Well,  this  old  man  had  a 
splendid  daughter,  who  had  her  favors  for  some  folks, 
and  for  some  she  hadn't  any.  This  daughter's  name 
was — " 

"  Mr.  Buck,"  interposed  Mary,  hurriedly,  "  if  you 
are  a  gentleman — " 

"  But  I'm  not  a  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Buck.     "  1 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  237 

never  was  a  gentleman — don't  pretend,  you  know,  to 
any  thing  of  the  kind.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  this 
daughter's  name  was — " 

"  Mr.  Buck  !  " 

"What?" 

"  Have  you  no  pity  1 " 

"  None  to  speak  of— mean  to  get  some  next  time  1 
go  to  market — put  it  down  on  memorandum."  Dan 
Buck  coolly  drew  out  a  pencil  and  paper,  and  wrote 
down  and  read  aloud,  "  Pity,  one  pint." 

"  Have  you  a  sister,  Mr.  Buck  ?  " 

"  Nary  sister — do  little  something  for  you  in  the 
way  of  brothers,  if  you  want." 

"  Have  you  a  mother  1  " 

"All  out  of  mother — sorry,  but  stock  exhausted." 

"  Have  you  any  honor  ? "  said  Miss  Hammett, 
angry  at  the  insolent  irony  with  which  he  had  met  her 
efforts  to  find  some  sensitive  point  in  his  nature,  to 
which  she  might  effectually  appeal. 

"  You  might  as  well  stop  that  kind  of  dodge,"  re 
sponded  Dan  Buck.  "  You  won't  make  any  thing  out 
of  it,  and  I  shall  not  get  through  with  my  story.  As  I 
was  saying,  the  old  man  had  a  daughter,  whose  name — 
was — Mary —  " 

Mary  lifted  both  her  hands  in  deprecation  of  further 
progress. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  young  man  maliciously,  "  that  you 
do  not  want  this  woman  to  hear  the  next  word,  but  I 
swear  I'll  speak  it  if  you  don't  send  her  out  of  the  room, 
and  worse  words  than  that,  too." 

To  this  purpose  of  the  adroit  villain,  Mary  was  at 
length  subdued ;  and  she  bade  Mrs.  Blague  retire.  Mr. 


238  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

Dan  Buck  followed  her  to  the  door,  shut  it  after  her, 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  then  withdrew  it,  and 
put  it  into  his  pocket.  "  Now,"  said  he,  "  nobody  can 
disturb  us,  and  we  shall  have  a  charming  time." 

Mary  rose  to  her  feet  alarmed.  "  What  do  you 
want  of  me  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Oh !  sit  down,  sit  down.  Allow  me  to  conduct  you 
to  a  better  seat  than  that."  And  the  scoundrel  tried  to 
put  his  arm  around  the  frightened  girl.  In  an  instant 
she  eluded  him,  and  ran  to  raise  the  window.  He  fol 
lowed,  and  held  it  down. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  A  kiss." 

"  Dan  Buck,"  said  Mary  fiercely,  "  I  understand  you  ; 
and  now  you  must  understand  me.  There  are  things 
in  this  world  that  I  dread  more  than  discovery.  You 
know  what  they  are,  and  now  if  you  do  not  desist  from 
your  purpose  to  insult  me,  I  will  scream  so  that  all 
Crampton  shall  hear  me.  Your  silence  will  never  be 
purchased  by  me  at  the  price  of  dishonor.  I  will  not 
even  allow  you  the  privileges  of  a  friend.  Now  what 
have  you  to  say  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  understand  all  this.  I  understood  it 
before  I  came  here ;  and  now  you  must  understand  that 
Dan  Buck  looks  out  for  number  one,  and  is  bound  to 
make  his  pile.  It's  kisses  or  cash  with  Dan  Buck — 
Mary  or  money.  You  know  that  I  could  get  a  thou 
sand  dollars  out  of  the  old  man  for  tipping  him  the 
wink,  and  I  can't  afford  to  lose  the  rhino.  You  are 
nothing  to  me.  You  hate  me,  and  think  I'm  the  devil 
and  all,  and  I  shan't  do  any  thing  to  change  your  opin 
ion.  You  always  had  favors  enough  for  you  know 


AN   AMEEICAN   STORY.  239 

who,  but  nothing  for  this  child.     Now  what  can  you  do 
for  a  feller?" 

Mary  was  angry  and  disgusted  with  the  mercenary 
scoundrel,  but  she  was  relieved.  "  You  know  that  I 
am  poor,"  said  she, "  and  labor  for  every  dollar  I  re 
ceive  ?  " 

"  That's  not  my  look-out,"  responded  Dan  Buck.  "  I 
know  that  you  have  only  to  say  the  word  to  have  all 
the  money  you  want ;  but  if  you  won't  say  it,  why,  I 
can't  help  it.  It  doesn't  seem  to  be  just  the  cheese  for 
Dan  Buck  to  pocket  your  change,  I  know ;  but  he  knows 
where  you  can  get  more,  whenever  you  care  more  about 
the  money  than  you  do  about  your  own  will." 

Dan  Buck  said  all  this  leaning  forward  in  his  chair 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his  hands  employed 
in  beating  a  tattoo  upon  his  front  teeth  with  the  point 
er's  head.  Such  cool,  imperturbable  impudence  Mary 
had  never  seen.  After  a  few  moments  of  thought  she 
said :  "  How  much  money  must  I  give  you  to  secure 
your  silence,  and  free  myself  from  your  importunities  ?  " 

"  All  you've  got." 

"And  what  security  will  you  give  me  that  your 
part  of  the  bargain  will  be  fulfilled  ?  " 

"  The  word  of  a  man  of  honor,"  replied  Dan  Buck, 
with  special  unction,  "  provided  you've  saved  up  any 
thing  handsome." 

Mary  smiled  in  spite  of  her  vexation.  "  You  have 
no  honor,  Dan  Buck,"  said  she. 

Dan  Buck's  temper  was  entirely  unruffled  by  this 
very  uncomplimentary  statement.  "  Wrong,"  said  he, 
"  got  considerable.  Any  quantity  left  over  when  I  failed, 
you  know — give  you  a  mortgage  on  the  lot." 


24:0 

"  Then  you  are  really  in  earnest  in  wishing  to  take 
this  money  from  me  1 "  said  Miss  Hammett. 

"  I'd  rather  it  would  come  out  of  the  old  man,  of 
course,"  said  he.  "  Now  you  don't  consider  that  I'm 
really  making  a  great  sacrifice  in  consenting  to  take  up 
with  what  you've  got  to  give  me,  for  the  sake  of  accom 
modating  you." 

Mary  reflected  for  a  minute,  then  rose  and  said :  "  Ex 
cuse  me  for  a  moment." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Up  stairs  for  my  money." 

Dan  Buck  drew  the  parlor  key  from  his  pocket,  put 
it  into  the  lock,  and  turning  the  bolt,  said,  "  All  fail- 
now,  no  dodges,"  and  then  he  opened  the  door  and  let 
her  out. 

The  moment  she  retired,  he  went  to  the  centre-table, 
turned  over  the  cards  and  billet-doux,  and  among  them 
found  a  note  in  Mary's  hand-writing.  This  he  carefully 
placed  in  his  pocket-book,  and  was  engaged  in  another 
critical  examination  of  the  Holy  Family  when  the 
young  woman  returned.  Mary  handed  him  a  roll  of 
bank-notes,  the  result  mainly  of  her  year's  earnings,  and 
said  :  "  Here  is  all  the  money  I  have  in  the  world.  If 
you  choose  to  take  the  whole  of  it,  be  it  so.  Whatever 
you  do,  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  consider  you 
the  blackest  villain  I  ever  saw." 

Dan  Buck  took  the  notes,  unfolded  them  upon  his 
knee,  counted  them  over,  pocketed  them,  and,  rising  to 
his  feet,  said :  "  You've  got  off  cheap  ;  and  now,  if  you 
ever  blow  on  me,  I'll  have  the  old  man  on  your  track 
in  thirty-six  hours.  I  wish  you  a  good  evening." 

Then  Dan  Buck  stuck  his  jockey  cap  upon  his  head, 


AN   AMERICAN    STOBY.  241 

walked  out  of  the  house  with  a  careless  whistle  upon 
his  lips,  and  took  his  way  back  to  Hucklebury  Run. 

When,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  Arthur  came  home  to 
spend  the  Sabbath,  his  mother  told  him  the  whole  story 
of  Dan  Buck's  visit  so  far  as  she  knew  it.  Arthur  raved 
with  indignation.  The  thought  that  his  angel,  his  imper 
sonation  of  all  earthly  and  heavenly  graces,  should  be  sub 
jected  to  the  insolence  of  so  low  and  unprincipled  a  man  as 
Dan  Buck,  aroused  every  thing  fierce  in  his  nature.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  way  of  retribution  or  revenge  that  he 
did  not  feel  ready  to  undertake.  He  determined  to  call 
the  villain  to  an  account,  and  so  informed  his  mother. 
Nothing  could  have  alarmed  Mrs.  Blague  more  than  this 
declaration.  She  immediately  saw  before  her  imagina 
tion  the  mangled  corpse  of  her  son,  and  tried  words  and 
tears  in  vain  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose.  She  did 
not  see  the  secret  spring  of  her  son's  ungovernable  wrath, 
and  was  frightened  at  its  manifestations.  Accordingly, 
on  the  first  opportunity,  she  sought  Miss  Hammett's 
room,  and  communicated  to  her  the  condition  of  her 
son's  mind,  and  besought  her  good  offices  in  pacifying 
him.  Under  the  circumstances,  Miss  Hammett  was 
alarmed,  and  begged  for  an  immediate  private  interview 
with  him  in  the  parlor. 

Seated  there  before  him,  she  told  him  how  necessary 
to  her  peace  it  was  that  Arthur  should  take  no  notice 
whatever  of  Mr.  Dan  Buck's  insults.  She  could  not 
tell  him  why  it  was  so,  but  she  assured  him  that  no 
one  could  interfere  between  the  young  scoundrel  and 
herself  without  doing  her  an  essential  unkindness.  On 
that  occasion,  and  on  all  future  occasions,  she  must  be 
left  absolutely  alone  in  the  management  of  her  relations 
11 


24:2  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEE: 

to  Mr.  Dan  Buck.  If  she  should  ever  need  assistance, 
the  first  one  to  whom  she  should  look  for  aid  would  be 
Arthur  Blague.  Arthur  was  softened  and  conciliated 
by  this  latter  assurance,  but  the  close  of  the  interview 
left  him  mystified  and  uncomfortable.  What  had  Mary 
Hammett  been — what  had  she  done — to  make  her  the 
subject  of  Dan  Buck's  persecutions  1  Why  should  she 
be  unwilling  to  have  her  cause  espoused  by  a  man  who 
was  ready  and  anxious  to  protect  her1?  What  right 
had  a  man  of  Dan  Buck's  character  to  force  himself  into 
her  society  ?  By  what  means  had  he  been  able  to  do 
this  with  impunity  ?  These  questions  made  him  very 
miserable,  and  his  Sabbath  was  a  day  of  moody  abstrac 
tion,  which  all  of  Mary's  delicate  and  cordial  attentions 
failed  to  alleviate. 


AN  AMEBICAN  STOEY.  243 

w;>i  ' 


Of 

oiiw  nfim  B  \ 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

TRISTRAM  TREVANION  GETS  REVIEWED,  AND  MISS  GILBERT  GETS 
DISGUSTED. 

WHEN  Fanny  Gilbert  fully  realized  that  she  was 
about  to  appear  before  the  world  as  an  authoress,  the 
hours  were  many  in  which  her  heart  sank  within  her. 
When  the  path  to  publicity  was  difficult  or  doubtful, 
the  goal  was  crowned  with  a  golden  glory.  Now  that 
it  had  become  easy  and  certain,  clouds  came  dubiously 
down  and  filled  her  with  fear.  She  had  been  at  work 
for  fame  :  what  if,  instead  of  fame,  she  should  only  win 
disgrace  1  What  if  she  should  fail  to  arrest  the  atten 
tion  of  the  world  for  a  moment,  and  her  book  should 
be  carelessly  kicked  into  oblivion  1  Through  her  con 
versations  with  Mary  Hammett,  she  had  learned  that 
the  world  really  owed  her  nothing.  She  had  not  writ 
ten  her  book  from  love  of  the  world,  or  a  desire  to 
benefit  the  world*  She  was  conscious  that  there  was 
nothing  in  her  motives,  or  her  intentions,  upon  which 
she  could  establish  a  claim  to  the  world's  charitable 
judgments.  She  had  selfishly  labored  all  winter  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  gathering  a  harvest  of  praise,  and 


24:4: 

she  knew  that  if  she  should  fail  to  reap  according  to  her 
hope,  her  labor  would  be  lost  without  recourse.  She 
could  not  fall  back  upon  her  motives  and  her  aims  for 
consolation,  nor  could  she  look  forward  to  another  gen 
eration  for  appreciation  and  vindication. 

Many  times  did  Miss  Gilbert  wish  that  she  could  be 
like  the  careless  girls  who  called  upon  her — content 
with  the  little  life  they  were  living.  She  despised  their 
devotion  to  dress,  and  their  delight  with  trifles.  She 
scorned  the  petty  gossip  of  beaux  and  belles  that  busied 
their  tongues ;  but  she  doubted  whether  she  were  as 
really  happy  as  they ;  and  sometimes  she  shrank  from 
the  gulf  of  active  life  and  wearying  thought  into  which 
she  was  plunging.  She  trembled  when  she  thought  that 
she  was  entering  upon  a  life  from  which  she  could  never 
retreat — that  never  in  this  world  or  the  next  could  she 
be  satisfied  with  the  simple  fact  of  being.  She  looked 
on,  on,  on ;  and  there  rose  'before  her  no  high  table-land 
of  rest.  The  laborer  passed  her  window,  his  hoe  upon 
his  shoulder,  returning  from  his  work  in  the  fields. 
She  watched  him  as  he  approached  his  dwelling,  saw 
the  little  ones  run  out  to  welcome  him,  and  the  humble 
wife  smiling  at  the  door,  and  felt  that  in  his  insignificant 
life  and  unambitious  aims  there  was  indeed  a  charm 
worth  sighing  for — a  charm  which  she  was  painfully 
conscious  that  she  could  not  even  choose  to  endow  her 
own  life  with.  She  had  burst  the  shell  that  enclosed 
the  world  around  her,  and  had  caught  glimpses  of  the 
stars  above  her,  and  the  great  ocean  of  life  that  stretched 
around ;  and  while  she  looked,  her  wings  had  grown, 
and  she  could  never  enter  the  shell  again.  Like  thou 
sands  who  lived  before  her,  and  millions  that  will  come 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  245 

after  her,  for  the  first  time  conscious  of  the  same  condi 
tion,  she  sighed  "  Alas  !  "  and  turned  to  her  work. 

As  nothing  particularly  worthy  of  note  occurred  at 
Crampton  or  the  Run  during  the  summer,  among  the 
other  characters  engaged  in  our  story,  there  will  be 
abundant  opportunity  to  tell  of  Fanny  Gilbert's  work, 
and  its  results.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Frank 
Sargent  had  recommended  certain  changes  to  be  made 
in  her  novel.  She  had  given  the  subject  a  good  deal  of 
thought,  and  had  finally  concluded  to  act  upon  Mary 
Hammett's  suggestion — to  marry  Grace  Beaumont  to 
Tristram  Trevanion,  in  order  that  the  public  demand  for 
poetic  justice  should  be  satisfied,  and,  further  to  com 
pass  the  same  end,  to  secure  the  violent  death  of  the 
Jewish  dwarf  at  the  hand  of  her  hero.  Further  than 
this  she  would  not  go.  The  title  of  her  novel  should 
remain  as  it  was — "  Tristram  Trevanion,  or  the  Hounds 
of  the  Whippoorwill  Hills,"  forever  ! 

As  she  knew  her  manuscript  by  rote,  it  was  not 
necessary  for  her  to  procure  its  return  from  the  pub 
lisher,  in  order  to  make  the  proposed  changes.  So,  in 
the  charming  sovereignty  of  authorship,  she  coolly  sat 
down,  and  decreed  and  executed  the  marriage  and  the 
murder.  Not  only  this,  but  she  dressed  the  bride  in 
exquisite  array,  and  crowned  her  with  orange  blossoms, 
and  made  a  great  feast,  and  (shall  it  be  said  ?)  created  a 
family  of  beautiful  children,  who  filled  the  hearts  of 
their  parents  with  unalloyed  happiness  through  a  very 
long  term  of  years,  and  brought  honor  to  the  already 
glorious  name  of  Trevanion.  The  dwarf  died  as  he  had 
lived — a  miscreant ;  but  in  his  last  moments  he  con 
fessed  the  justice  of  his  doom,  in  that  he  had  been  the 


246 

author  of  various  murders  in  his  vicinity,  which  had 
hitherto  been  shrouded  in  mystery.  In  consequence  of 
this  fact,  Trevanion  was  able  to  escape  all  regrets  for 
his  violence,  and  complacently  to  regard  himself  as  an 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence  for  punishing  the 
guilty. 

These  alterations  having  been  carefully  executed, 
they  were  inclosed  by  mail  to  the  publisher,  and  Fanny 
subsided  into  thoughtful  inactivity,  to  wait  for  further 
developments.  She  did  not  wait  long.  At  the  end  of 
two  weeks  she  received  a  few  sheets  of  proof — hardly 
more  than  specimen  pages — to  show  her  how  the  work 
would  look,  but  enough  to  excite  her,  and  bring  to  her 
a  fresh  instalment  of  dreams  of  the  future.  Ah  !  the  first 
bliss  of  being  in  type !  Nothing,  in  the  most  trium 
phant  career  of  authorship,  equals  the  exultant  happiness 
of  that  precious  moment.  No  event,  but  the  morning 
of  the  resurrection,  can  bring  a  repetition  of  that  emo 
tion  that  pervades  the  soul  when  one's  corruptible  man 
uscript  first  puts  on  incorruptible  letter-press,  and  the 
loose,  uncertain  mortality  of  running-hand  rises  into  the 
immortality  of  print.  Fanny  Gilbert's  age  and  tem 
perament  were  abundantly  susceptible  to  this  charming 
experience,  and  she  enjoyed  it  keenly.  She  shut  herself 
into  her  room,  and  read,  and  re-read,  the  charming 
pages.  She  saw  that  the  book  was  going  to  be  a  new 
one  to  her.  The  thoughts  were  crowded  nearer  to 
gether  ;  their  relations  became  more  apparent  to  her 
self.  She  carried  them  to  Mary  Hammett,  and  the  two 
young  women  read  them  in  company.  Dr.  Gilbert 
read  them  ;  Aunt  Catharine  read  them  ;  and  even  little 
Fred  was  allowed  to  share  in  his  sister's  happiness. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  247 

It  was  well  that  the  young  authoress  should  be  happy 
for  her  little  moment.  It  was  well  that  the  world 
should  be  transfigured  in  the  light  of  her  new  emotions. 
June,  the  month  of  roses,  was  at  flood-tide.  As  Fanny 
sat  at  her  window  dreaming,  she  saw  the  green  sea  of 
foliage  tossing  in  billowy  unrest,  and  sparkling  with 
myriad  flowers,  and  foaming  in  the  beds  of  its  uneasy 
abysses  with  sheeted  bloom.  Out  upon  that  beautiful 
sea  all  her  sensibilities  pushed  their  sails,  to  dance  and 
float  and  fly,  under  the  light  of  the  great,  slumbrous 
sun.  What  rare  sea-birds  were  those  that  plied  their 
ceaseless  wings  and  sang  their  marvellous  songs  among 
the  waves  ! — orioles,  like  coals  of  fire,  plunging  in,  and 
coming  out  unquenched ;  automatic  humming-birds, 
stopping  here  and  there,  and  sipping  and  sliding  away 
with  a  whirr,  as  if  revolving  upon,  and  following,  an  in 
visible  wire ;  chimney  swallows  paying  out  from  imper 
ceptible  reels  broad  nets  of  music  to  catch  flies  with ; 
bobolinks,  diving  into  the  swaying  masses  of  green,  and 
coming  out  with  a  thousand  tough  bubbles  bursting  in 
their  metallic  throats  ;  broad-winged  hawks,  slowly 
sailing  above  all,  far  up  in  the  breathless  ether,  ripening 
their  feathery  silver  in  the  sun,  and  watching  the  play 
beneath  !  And  then  what  musical  spray  of  insect-life 
swept  through  the  balmy  atmosphere ! — bees  sprinkling 
themselves  upon  the  fresh  blush-roses  at  the  door,  or 
humming  by,  loaded  with  plunder ;  flies  industriously 
doing  nothing ;  whole  generations  of  motes  sliding  up 
and  down  shadow-piercing  sunbeams  !  Into  this  beau 
tiful  scene,  and  half-creating  it,  went  Fanny's  happy 
fancy,  dreaming,  and  dreaming,  and  dreaming,  through  < 
hours  of  intoxication. 


MISS  GILBERTS  CAREER: 

Tlie  proofs  came  in  slowly.  There  was  evidently 
no  haste  on  the  part  of  the  publisher  in  completing  the 
volume.  In  fact,  he  had  informed  the  young  authoress 
that  he  only  aimed  to  have  it  in  readiness  for  the  fall 
trade.  The  time,  however,  seemed  very  long  ;  for 
Fanny  could  do  nothing  while  the  grand  event  of  her 
life  was  in  expectation.  She  had  done  her  work,  and 
had  no  heart  for  further  enterprise  until  she  had  re 
ceived  payment  for  the  past.  Miss  Hammett,  too, 
seemed  to  be  quite  as  much  interested  in  the  receipt  of 
the  proofs  as  if  the  book  were  her  own,  for  with  each 
instalment  there  invariably  came  a  good-natured,  sport 
ive  letter  from  the  publisher,  which  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  borrowing  and  reading  at  her  leisure. 

The  weary  summer  wore  away  at  last,  and  Septem 
ber  brought  the' long-wished-for  volume,  and  in  its  com 
pany  a  most  disgusting  disappointment.  Instead  of 
the  massive  book  which  the  massive  manuscript  and  the 
multiplied  proofs  had  prophesied,  it  was  a  dwarfed 
little  volume,  that  indicated  equal  scarcity  of  brains  and 
paper.  The  typographical  aspect  of  the  book  showed 
that  the  printer  had  spread  out  into  the  largest  space  an 
incompetent  mass  of  material,  and  had  failed,  at  last,  to 
make  any  thing  of  pretentious  magnitude.  Poor  Fanny 
looked  over  the  books  in  her  father's  library,  saw  what 
other  brains  had  done,  and  was  driven  into  self-con 
tempt — almost  into  despair.  "  Tristram  Trevanion " 
made  no  show  in  the  world  at  all !  Why,  it  was  no 
bigger  than  a  Sunday-school  book ;  and  it  seemed  to 
the  writer  so  unaccountable  that  anybody  could  ever 
have  spent  as  much  time  on  a  Sunday-school  book  as 
she  had  spent  on  that !  What  possible  object  could 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  249 

they  have  had !  How  could  they  have  lived  through 
it! 

After  all  the  dreams  of  the  summer  came  a  great 
reaction.  The  book  was  born,  but  it  was  a  very  insig 
nificant  child  indeed,  and  was  made  quite  ridiculous  by 
the  disproportion  between  its  swollen  and  sonorous 
name  and  its  gross  weight.  She  conceived  a  new  re 
spect  for  the  gentleman  who  had  suggested  "  Shucks  " 
as  a  fitting  title,  and  wondered  that  he  had  been  so  gen 
erous  as  even  to  think  of  "  Rhododendron."  She  laid 
it  down  upon  the  table,  and  looked  at  it  with  other 
books,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  wonder  whether,  if  it 
should  secure  the  praise  of  the  public,  she  should  not  be 
so  much  disgusted  with  the  public  for  praising  it,  that 
the  praise  would  lose  its  value. 

Poor  child  ! — for  she  was  but  a  child — she  had  not 
learned  that  an  achievement,  to  him  who  achieves,  is 
dead — that  it  is  only  a  block  upon  which  he  stands,  that 
he  may  wreathe  crowns  about  the  brows  of  higher 
deeds.  She  had  not  learned  that  to  each  great  effort  of 
a  soul  which  God  has  informed  with  genius  there  comes 
an  influx  of  new  power,  advancing  its  possibilities  so  far, 
that  all  it  has  done  becomes  contemptible  to  itself. 
She  had  not  learned  that  the  more  genius  glories  in  the 
results  of  its  labor,  the  more  does  it  show  itself  im 
poverished  by  its  labor,  and  the  more  does  it  demon 
strate  the  shallowness  of  its  resources  and  the  weakness 
of  its  vitality. 

But  the  book  was  out.     What  should  be  its  fate  ? 

Dr.  Gilbert  had  his  own   opinion  of  the  volume,  and 

some  very  well-founded  apprehensions  of  its  destiny. 

Since  its  enthusiastic  reception  by  the  pastor  and  his 

11* 


250  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEKB: 

wife,  he  had  thought  about  it  a  great  deal  more  than  he 
had  ever  done  before.  The  reflections  to  which  his  visit 
to  New  York  had  given  rise,  had  carried  him  into  a 
juster  estimate  of  his  daughter's  powers  as  a  writer,  and 
the  world's  needs  and  demands,  than  he  had  entertained 
before.  In  truth,  the  relations  of  his  daughter's  life  to 
the  life  of  the  great  world,  had  come  to  look  to  him  very 
like  the  relations  of  Crampton  to  the  great  world  of 
production  and  trade.  But  he  had  an  interest  in  the 
book  which  Fanny  had  not.  He  had  agreed  to  share 
the  loss  on  its  publication  in  case  that  publication 
should  be  a  failure.  He  was  pledged  to  all  proper  and 
practicable  efforts,  therefore,  for  its  financial  success. 

A  small  package  of  the  books  had  been  sent  to  him 
for  distribution  among  the  local  press.  He  made  an 
errand  to  Littleton,  and  left  a  copy  with  the  editor  of 
the  Littleton  Examiner.  He  sent  a  copy  by  mail  to 
the  editor  of  the  Londonderry  Gazette,  and  another  to 
the  North  Yerrington  Courier.  More  distant  members 
of  the  great  newspaper  fraternity  were  equally  favored. 
Fanny  was  aware  of  these  operations,  and  gradually 
came  out  of  the  condition  of  half-indifferent  disgust  into 
which  the  completed  volume  had  thrown  her,  into  one 
of  painful  anxiety.  Now  that  public  condemnation  or 
public  approval  was  imminent,  her  fears  quite  out 
weighed  her  hopes,  and  she  could  hardly  sleep  during  the 
period  that  she  awaited  the  decision  of  the  local  presses 
to  which  so  peculiarly  her  fate  had  been  committed* 
The  Littleton  Examiner  had  pretensions  to  literary 
character  very  much  in  advance  of  its  neighbors.  Kev. 
J.  Desilver  Newman,  a  young  clergyman  not  altogether 
unknown  in  these  pages,  was  supposed  to  have  some 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  251 

mysterious  connection  with  this  press.  The  editor  him 
self  was  a  profound  theorist,  and  delighted  more  in 
speculation  than  in  matters  of  fact.  It  was  very  diffi 
cult,  indeed,  to  obtain  the  news  from  his  sheet,  except 
in  an  incidental  manner,  for  the  events  of  the  world 
were  so  accustomed  to  suggest  new  trains  of  thought, 
and  to  keep  him  busy  among  philosophical  causes,  that 
he  had  all  he  could  do  to  present  what  he  delighted  to 
call  "  the  rationale  of  current  life." 

The  position  of  the  Littleton  Examiner  was  con 
sidered  by  the  press  of  the  region  very  enviable.  That 
sheet  was,  in  fact,  quite  the  standard.  All  waited,  be 
fore  expressing  an  opinion,  to  see  what  the  Examiner 
said.  On  some  subjects  they  always  took  the  liberty 
"  to  differ  with  brother  Highway  of  the  Littleton  Ex 
aminer,"  simply  because,  in  all  matters  of  politics  and 
religion,  it  was  expected  of  them  by  their  subscribers 
that  they  should  differ  with  brother  Highway.  In  lite 
rary  matters,  however,  it  was  always  delightful  for  them 
to  add  their  humble  testimony  to  that  of  brother  High 
way,  in  favor  or  in  condemnation  of  any  man,  scheme, 
or  opinion  that  might  be  under  discussion.  Besides,  it 
was  an  easy  way  of  making  a  paragraph  to  say,  "  We 
do  not  agree  with  brother  Highway  of  the  Examiner, 
when  he  says  that,"  &c.,  &c.,  quoting  brother  Highway's 
paragraph  without  the  disfiguration  of  quotation  marks ; 
or  to  say,  "  Though  differing  with  brother  Highway  of 
the  Examiner,  on  a  wide  range  of  subjects  discussed  in 
these  pages,  it  always  gives  us  pleasure,  when  we  can 
do  it  conscientiously,  to  bestow  upon  his  sentiments  our 
cordial  approval,  as  we  do  when  he  remarks  that,"  &c., 
&c.,  quoting  a  whole  article,  and  leaving  out  the  quota- 


252 

tion  marks,  of  course.  In  this  way,  brother  Highway 
was  nattered  and  kept  good-natured,  and  his  "  valued 
contemporaries,"  using  his  brains  and  words  to  fill  their 
pages  with,  nursed  their  self-complacency  by  a  dignified 
censorship  of  all  brother  Highway's  utterances.  So 
brother  Highway  wrote  paragraphs  and  leaders  and  dis 
quisitions  for  all  of  them,  and  all  they  had  to  do  was, 
in  editorial  sovereignty,  to  approve  of,  or  dissent  from, 
brother  Highway. 

The  Littleton  Examiner  came  at  last — wet  and 
doubtfully  fragrant  from  the  press — and  was  received 
from  the  hand  of  the  weekly  post-rider  by  Fanny  her 
self.  She  took  it  privately  to  her  room  to  read  it  alone 
— her  heart  throbbing  violently  with  apprehension. 
She  opened  the  important  sheet,  and  read,  first,  a  long 
advertisement  of  the  "  Matchless  Sanative,"  and,  as  if 
this  were  a  fitting  preparation  for  the  catalogue  of 
deaths,  she  then  went  through  the  mortuary  record  of 
the  week.  She  had,  of  course,  no  interest  in  these 
things.  The  notice  of  her  book  was  the  first  article  that 
arrested  her  eye  when  she  opened  the  paper,  but  she 
was  not  ready  for  it.  Her  eye  ran  around  it,  and  then 
ran  away — came  up  to  it,  and  dodged — descended  upon 
it  like  a  bird  upon  a  pool,  and  sprang  up  again,  fright 
ened  at  sight  of  its  own  feathers.  At  length,  by  a  sort 
of  spiritual  endosmosis,  the  character  and  quality  of  the 
critique  made  its  way  into  her  consciousness,  and  she 
came  gradually  to  its  literal  perusal. 

Now  brother  Highway  of  the  Littleton  Examiner, 
never  noticed  a  book,  at  any  length,  without  giving  his 
theory  of  the  class  of  books  to  which  the  one  in  hand 
belonged.  After  his  theory  had  had  exposition,  it  mat- 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  253 

tered  very  little  what  was  said  about  the  book — in  fact, 
it  mattered  very  little  whether  he  had  read  the  book  at 
all.  He  threw  out  his  theory  as  that  by  which  the 
book  was  to  stand  or  fall ;  and  was  often  so  considerate 
as  to  let  the  public  decide  whether  it  could  abide  the 
test  of  the  theory  or  not.  In  this  case,  he  had  sacrificed 
an  unusually  extended  space  to  the  review,  five-sixths  of 
which  were  devoted  to  an  exposition  of  his  theory  of 
novel-writing,  and  one-sixth  to  the  book  itself.  The 
single  paragraph  on  "  Tristram  Trevanion  "  seemed  to 
be  written  to  prove  that  the  author  recognized  the  Ex 
aminer's  theory,  and  had  constructed  the  book  with  sole 
reference  to  it.  Fanny's  quick  insight  immediately  de 
tected  the  fact  that  the  editor  had  not  read  her  book  at 
all — or,  rather,  that  he  had  done  no  more  than  to  dip 
here  and  there  into  its  pages.  The  degree  of  disgust 
with  which  she  read  the  following  paragraph  relating  to 
her  volume,  can  be  imagined  : 

"  '  Tristram  Trevanion,'  tried  by  this  test,  and  made 
to  confront  these  great  fundamental  and  eternal  princi 
ples,  betrays  the  ring  of  the  genuine  metal.  The  style 
of  the  writer  is  sparkling  without  being  intense,  flow 
ing  without  looseness,  and  pure  as  the  mountain  brook 
without  the  stones  and  rocks  and  abysses  which  obstruct 
its  flow,  and  throw  its  bounding  waters  into  inextrica 
ble  confusion.  As  we  wade  with  heart  absorbed, 
through  its  pellucid  pages,  in  fancy's  quickened  ear  we 
can  hear  the  baying  of  the  hounds  upon  the  Whippoor- 
will  Hills,  the  distant  winding  of  the  horn  of  the  gallant 
Trevanion,  the  frenzied  shriek  of  the  perjured  Jew,  and 
all  the  varied  music  of  that  great  song  of  life  whose 
notes  fall  so  forcibly  upon  the  appreciative  ear.  The 


254  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEER: 

book  is,  of  course,  written  by  a  woman.  No  man,  liv. 
ing  or  dead,  could  have  dressed  Grace  Beaumont  for 
her  nuptials  with  Trevanion  with  such  precision  and 
propriety,  and  we  may  add,  with  such  gorgeous  sim 
plicity,  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  use  so  suggestive  a 
solecism.  The  writer,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  not  alto 
gether  unknown  in  Littleton.  We  would  not  invade 
the  secret  of  the  musical  masculine  pseudonym  she  has 
assumed ;  but  in  its  revelation,  if  it  shall  ever  be  un 
folded,  we  are  much  mistaken  if  it  is  not  found  to  in 
vade  the  precincts  of  our  stirring  little  neighbor,  Cramp- 
ton.  The  book  cannot  fail  to  have  a  million  readers, 
who,  we  are  certain,  will  bear  us  out  in  the  assertion 
that  this  first  offspring  of  the  fair  writer's  muse,  must 
introduce  her  to  a  career  which  will  satisfy  her  most 
daring  ambition." 

"  And  this  is  the  stuff  that  public  praise  is  made 
of! "  exclaimed  Miss  Gilbert,  as  the  Littleton  Examiner 
fell  from  her  hands  to  the  floor.  It  was  praise,  cer 
tainly,  but  it  was  praise  that  she  despised,  and  was 
written  that  the  editor  might  glorify  himself,  not  her — 
written  to  prove  that  if  she  had  not,  by  great  good  for 
tune,  pitched  upon  the  editor's  theory  of  novel-writing 
as  the  basis  of  her  work,  she  must  inevitably  and  disas 
trously  have  failed.  Aunt  Catharine  was  more  easily 
pleased,  and  thought  Fanny  had  every  reason  to  be 
satisfied  with  it.  For  her  part,  she  could  not  see  what 
could  have  been  asked  for  better  than  that.  Dr.  Gil 
bert  was  not  altogether  displeased  with  it.  At  least, 
he  thought  the  effect  of  it  would  be  to  help  the  sale  of 
the  book. 

A  week  after  this,  Dr.  Gilbert  received  by  mail 


AN   AMERICAN    STOBY.  255 

copies  of  the  papers  whose  editors  he  had  favored  with 
the  volume.  These  Fanny  had  looked  forward  to  with 
greedy  expectation,  but  she  was  more  disgusted  with  their 
notices  of  her  book  than  with  that  of  the  Examiner. 
The  Londonderry  Gazette,  "  owing  to  the  crowded  state 
of  its  columns,"  (which  columns  were  occupied  largely 
with  dead  advertisements,)  had  only  space  to  repeat  the 
very  judicious  remarks  of  brother  Highway  of  the  Lit 
tleton  Examiner,  which  it  was  glad  to  do,  because  it 
was  so  rare  that  any  thing  appeared  in  that  sheet  worthy 
of  unqualified  approval.  It  then  copied  the  closing 
paragraph  entire,  with  the  exception  of  the  opening  sen 
tence.  The  editor  of  the  North  Yerrington  Courier 
had  not,  up  to  the  time  of  going  to  press,  been  in  the 
enjoyment  of  sufficient  leisure  to  give  the  book  such  a 
perusal  as  would  enable  him  to  do  justice  to  the  fair 
writer.  In  the  mean  time,  that  his  numerous  readers 
might  get  an  inkling  of  what  a  treat  was  in  store  for 
them,  he  would  present  the  opinion  of  brother  Highway 
of  the  Littleton  Examiner,  who  was  admitted,  "  by  the 
ladies"  to  be  a  judge  of  such  matters,  and  who  was  evi 
dently  thinking  about  "  them  trout "  when  he  spoke  of 
the  "  mountain  brook."  This  last  suggestion  Fanny  did 
not  understand ;  but  it  was  a  habit  of  the  editor  to 
carry  on  a  private  correspondence  with  his  friends  by 
toothsome  allusions  to  matters  from  which  the  envious 
public  were  shut  out  altogether.  The  dodge  by  which 
the  editor  escaped  noticing  her  book,  Fanny  understood 
very  well.  He  was  always  pressed  for  time,  and  was 
always  promising  to  do  something  the  next  week,  rely 
ing  upon  the  public  to  forget  his  promise,  and  upon 
himself  to  break  it. 


256  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

All  the  fragrance  presented  to  Fanny's  fastidious 
nostrils  by  the  "  local  press  "  was  exhausted.  It  had 
said  no  word  against  her  book — it  had,  in  reality, 
praised  it  very  highly — but  it  had  given  her  no  satisfac 
tion.  Newspaper  immortality  never  had  seemed  so 
hollow  to  her.  Other  papers  came  in  slowly.  One 
spoke  of  Tristram  Trevanion  as  a  sprightly  juvenile, 
which  all  the  children  would  insist  on  having ;  and 
parents  and  guardians  might  as  well  purchase  the  vol 
ume  first  as  last.  Another,  without  having  read  the 
book,  presumed  that  it  was  not  mistaken  in  stating  that 
the  volume  treated  of  the  times  of  the  Crusades. 
There  was  a  chivalric  smack  to  the  title  of  the  book 
which  was  quite  attractive,  though  the  writer  had  drawn 
her  inspiration,  doubtless,  from  Walter  Scott. 

In  accordance  with  the  directions  of  Mr.  Frank  Sar-, 
gent,  all  these  papers  were  sent  to  him,  that  he  might 
know  what  reception  his  adventure  as  a  publisher  was 
meeting  with.  In  the  mean  time,  Fanny  sought  for  city 
papers  on  every  hand.  Very  few  were  taken  in  Cramp- 
ton,  and  none  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  her  and  her 
volume.  A  few  weeks  passed  away,  when  she  received 
from  her  publisher  a  New  York  paper,  with  a  long  ad 
vertisement,  marked  to  attract  her  attention.  The  testi 
monials  to  the  excellencies  of  "Tristram  Trevanion," 
copied  from  various  papers  and  periodicals,  surprised 
and  delighted  her.  It  was  better  than  she  had  believed 
possible.  First  in  the  list  of  testimonials  was  the  fol 
lowing  : 

"  The  style  of  the  writer  is  sparkling,  flowing,  and 
pure  as  the  mountain  brook." — Lit.  Examiner. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  257 

Then  followed  closely : 

"  Betrays  the  ring  of  the  genuine  metal." — JV.  T. 
Courier. 

"  In  fancy's  quickened  ear  we  can  hear  the  baying  of 
the  hounds  upon  the  Whippoorwill  Hills,  the  distant 
winding  of  the  horn  of  the  gallant  Trevanion,  the  fren 
zied  shriek  of  the  perjured  Jew,"  &c. — Lon.  Gazette. 

"  Parents  and  guardians  may  as  well  purchase  the 
volume  first  as  last ;  "  "  drawn  her  inspiration  from 
Walter  Scott ;  "  and  similar  spirited  and  inspiring  sen 
tences  and  phrases,  footed  by  the  authority  quoted,  in 
italics,  filled  up  a  long  half-column. 

Strangely  enough,  Fanny  did  not  remember  to  have 
«een  these  sentences  before.  That  she  should  have  been 
thus  splendidly  noticed  in  the  Literary  Examiner,  the 
ISlew  York  Courier,  and  the  London  Gazette,  seemed 
like  the  realization  of  her  most  ambitious  dreams.  She 
longed  to  get  hold  of  the  papers  themselves,  that  she 
might  swallow  full  goblets  of  the  nectar  with  which  her 
enterprising  publisher  had  only  allowed  her  to  moisten 
her  thirsty  lips.  One  thing  seemed,  for  the  moment, 
blissfully  certain — that  a  book  which  had  not  only  re 
ceived  the  praise  of  the  metropolitan  journals  of  her 
own  country,  but  compelled  the  reluctant  applause  of  a 
high  transatlantic  authority,  could  not  be  considered  a 
failure,  even  should  it  prove  to  be  an  unprofitable  ven 
ture  financially. 

Full  of  her  new  delight,  Fanny's  first  thought  was 
to  visit  Mary  Hammett,  and  allow  her  to  share  in  her 
pleasure.  The  thought  was  executed  at  once,  and  Mary 


258 

met  the  young  authoress  with  genuine  gladness,  for  she 
seemed  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many  weeks. 
"  Now  what  ? "  said  the  schoolmistress,  as  they  sat 
down  together. 

"  Oh  !  I'm  so  happy  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny,  expiring 
a  long  breath,  as  if  her  bosom  were  overloaded. 

"  Now  what  again,  then  ?  "  said  Miss  Hammett,  with 
a  smile,  bending  to  Fanny,  and  kissing  her  flushed  fore 
head. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Sargent  is  very  kind,"  said  Fanny. 

Miss  Hammett  laughed.  "  Do  you  state  that  as  an 
independent  proposition,  or  has  it  some  relation  to  you 
and  your  book  1 "  she  inquired. 

"  I  think,"  responded  Fanny,  "  that  he  has  taken  a 
great  deal  of  pains  in  circulating  my  book,  and  collect 
ing  and  publishing  the  notices  of  it.  Then  he  is  so* 
thoughtful  to  send  these  notices  to  me.  I  suppose  he 
thinks  that  I  am  a  poor,  anxious  girl  up  here  in  the  coun 
try,  who  needs  comfort,  so  he  tries  to  comfort  me.  I 
have  a  great  inclination  to  fall  in  love  with  him." 

"  Don't,  I  pray  you,"  said  Miss  Hammett.  "  It 
might  break  the  heart  of  some  poor  girl.  But  come, 
Fanny,  you  have  not  told  me  what  makes  you  so 
happy." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  keeping  it  from  you,  to  excite  your  curi 
osity.  You  will  borrow  it,  as  you  do  Mr.  Sargent's 
letters,  if  I  show  it." 

Fanny  held  the  paper  in  her  hands,  and  indicated 
that  the  secret  of  her  happiness  was  in  its  pages.  Then 
she  slowly  unfolded  it,  and  finding  the  advertisement, 
handed  it  to  Miss  Hammett  to  peruse  in  silence.  Then 
she  sat  back  and  watched  the  face  of  her  sympathetic 


AN  AMERICAN   STOEY.  259 

companion,  that  she  might  gather  new  satisfaction  from 
its  expressions  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

Miss  Hammett  read  the  advertisement  from  begin 
ning  to  end  ;  but,  for  some  reason,  Fanny  failed  to  find 
in  her  face  the  expressions  she  anticipated.  On  the 
contrary,  Miss  Hammett's  hand  began  to  tremble,  her 
cheeks  and  forehead  grew  hot  and  flushed,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  she  could  never  finish  reading,  and  lift  her  eyes  to 
those  of  the  expectant  authoress. 

"  Mary  Hammett,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  inquired 
Fanny,  with  genuine  concern. 

The  schoolmistress  lifted  her  eyes  at  this  inquiry, 
with  a  costly  effort  of  self-composure,  and  said :  "  My 
dear  girl,  I  am  afraid  you  have  deceived  yourself." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  "  inquired  Fanny. 

"  Have  you  never  seen  these  sentences  before  ? " 
said  Miss  Hammett. 

"  Never.     Have  you  1 " 

"  I  think  I  have,"  replied  Mary,  sadly  ;  and  going  to 
her  table,  she  took  from  a  pile  of  papers  a  copy  of  the 
Littleton  Examiner.  Unfolding  it,  as  she  returned  to 
her  seat,  she  pointed  Fanny  to  the  notice  of  her  volume 
in  that  sheet,  and  said  :  "  You  will  see  that  it  was  the 
Littleton,  and  not  the  Literary  Examiner,  that  your 
publisher  has  quoted." 

"  But  the  extract  is  different  to  the  original,"  said 
Fanny,  in  alarm. 

"  The  words  are  all  there,"  replied  Mary,  quietly. 

"  But  what  is  this  from  the  New  York  Courier  ?  " 

"You  mistake  again,"  said  Mary.  "That  is  the 
North  Yerrington  Courier.  You  remember  that  that 
paper  adopted  the  Examiner's  notice." 


260 

Fanny  read  in  the  London  Gazette's  notice  the 
words,  "  in  fancy's  quickened  ear,"  and  then,  as  the 
truth  burst  fully  upon  her,  her  bosom  heaved  heavily, 
and  the  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

Miss  Hammett  took  the  poor  girl's  head  upon  her 
shoulder,  where  for  a  few  minutes  she  sobbed  in  silence. 
Then  Miss  Gilbert  rose  to  her  feet,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 
After  the  first  shock  of  disappointment,  came  anger. 
"  Mr.  Sargent  is  not  the  man  I  supposed  him  to  be," 
said  she.  "  He  has  intended  to  deceive  the  public,  and 
to  deceive  me.  These  contemptible  abbreviations  are 
coolly  calculated  to  mislead.  It  is  mean :  it  is  outra 
geous  ;  it  is  a  fraud  upon  the  public.  Does  Mr.  Frank 
Sargent  suppose  that  I  will  allow  a  book  of  mine  to  be 
pushed  by  such  paltry  lies  as  these  ?  I  will  write  him 
a  letter  that  will  make  his  cheeks  tingle.  I  will  tell 
him  what  I  think  of  him,  and  his  accursed  publishing 
machinery." 

Fanny  walked  the  room  with  flashing  eyes,  and  de 
livered  her  words  with  fiery  vehemence,  while  Miss 
Hammett  sat  and  watched  her  with  such  calmness  as 
she  could  command.  At  length  the  excitement  was 
exhausted,  and  the  schoolmistress  pointed  to  a  chair, 
and  said  :  "  There,  Fanny,  sit  down  !  Let  me  beg  you 
to  do  nothing  while  you  are  angry,  for  you  will  be 
sorry." 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  it  was  mean  in  him  to  try 
to  deceive  the  public  in  this  way  ?  "  said  Fanny,  taking 
her  seat. 

"  Possibly  some  clerk  may  have  done  it.  Possibly 
the  printer  made  the  changes  on  his  own  responsibility. 
Possibly  Mr.  Sargent,  in  his  haste,  for  he  must  be  a 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  261 

very  busy  man,  may  have  written  these  abbreviations 
without  noticing  the  coincidences  that  we  have  detected 
at  all.  There  are  a  hundred  possibilities,  either  of 
which  would  relieve  him  from  all  blame  in  the  mat 
ter." 

Fanny  was  staggered,  but  still  declared  her  belief 
that  it  was  an  intentional  deception. 

"  Then  you  think,"  said  Miss  Hammett,  "  that  a  per 
son  who,  for  purposes  of  gain,  tries  to  mislead  the  pub 
lic  by  attributing  to  one  name  that  for  which  another  is 
responsible,  is  very  blameworthy,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed     What  a  question  !  " 

"  Then  if  my  friend,  Miss  Fanny  Gilbert — a  young 
woman — writes  a  book,  and,  for  any  selfish  purpose 
whatever,  says  to  the  public  upon  her  title-page  that  her 
book  was  written  by  a  gentleman,  bearing  the  name  of 
Everard  Everest,  I  am  to  suppose  that  she  is  unworthy 
of  my  friendship,  and  legitimately  the  subject  of  her 
publisher's  execration,  am  I  ?  " 

"  How  ridiculous !  That  is  not  like  you  at  all,  Miss 
Hammett,"  exclaimed  Fanny  with  a  sneer. 

"  We  can  very  easily  imagine  circumstances  in 
which  it  would  not  be  ridiculous,"  responded  Mary, 
entirely  unruffled  ;  "  at  least,  I  know  that  authors  have 
tricks,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  publishers  have  also — 
tricks  whose  essential  nature  and  character  are  hidden  to 
both  by  the  veil  of  long  usage,  or  the  long  veil  of  usage 
— which  you  please.  My  only  wish  is  to  have  you  act 
carefully  and  charitably.  You  are  disappointed  and 
angry,  because  you  have  been  deceived,  and  because 
you  imagine  your  publisher  intended  to  deceive  the 
public.  You  do  not  know  that  he  intended  to  do  any 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREEK  : 

such  thing,  or  that  he  personally  saw  the  advertisement 
before  its  publication." 

Fanny  smiled  sadly.  She  was  not  convinced  that 
her  anger  had  been  without  cause ;  but  the  schoolmis 
tress,  in  her  earnest  endeavor  to  vindicate  the  excellent 
intentions  and  character  of  Mr.  Frank  Sargent,  had  out 
witted  and  silenced  her.  "  I  have  a  good  mind  to  be 
angry  with  you,  Mary  Hammett,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Why,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Because  you  will  never  allow  that  Mr.  Sargent 
can  do  wrong,  and  are  always  making  me  ashamed  of 
myself."  * 

The  schoolmistress  consciously  blushed,  and  with  a 
peculiarly  expressive  smile,  said  that  she  had  heard  a 
great  deal  in  her  life  of  quarrels  between  authors  and 
publishers,  and  was  determined  to  do  what  she  could  to 
lessen  their  number.  Fanny  then  took  the  New  York 
journal,  which  had  so  gratified  and  so  disappointed  her, 
and,  tearing  it  in  pieces,  threw  it  upon  the  fire  with  a 
sigh,  saying  :  "  My  father  shall  never  see  this." 

As  the  young  authoress  walked  thoughtfully  home 
ward,  some  bird  among  the  maples,  or  some  spirit  of 
the  air,  whispered  in  her  ear  an  unwelcome  truth. 
Where  it  came  from,  what  wings  bore  it,  she  never 
knew  ;  but  she  received  it  as  authentic.  Her  book  was 
a  failure,  and  her  publisher,  poorly  able  to  suffer  loss, 
had  resorted  to  a  violent  advertising  struggle  to  save  it 
from  falling  dead  at  the  threshold  of  the  market.  All 
her  winter's  labor,  all  her  anxiety,  all  her  doubts  and 
fears,  had  availed  her  nothing.  She  had  toiled  and 
hoped  for  fame,  but  she  had  reaped  only  disappointment 
and  mortification.  "  I'm  a  fool,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  to 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  263 

care  for  the  praise  of  a  public  that  proves  itself  so 
utterly  stupid.  I'm  a  fool,  to  permit  myself  to  be  mis 
erable,  because  fools  do  not  know  the  difference  between 
that  which  is  valuable  and  that  which  is  trash." 

This  was  an  outburst  of  spite  and  spleen,  and  after  it 
came  a  quiet  flow  of  common-sense.  Fanny  felt  that 
she  was  making  herself  ridiculous,  for  she  knew  that  if 
the  public  had  praised  and  patronized  her,  it  would  not 
have  seemed  foolish  to  her  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  it 
would  have  proved  itself  to  be  a  very  discriminating  and 
just  public  indeed,  whose  praise  outweighed  the  value  of 
gold.  She  was  very  glad  she  had  not  expressed  her 
spite  in  the  hearing  of  the  schoolmistress,  for  then  she 
would  have  had  this  consideration  thrust  upon  her  in 
the  peculiarly  decisive  style  of  that  young  woman. 

When  she  entered  her  home,  she  encountered  her 
father,  looking  grave  and  depressed.  He  spoke  to  her 
with  a  compassionate  tone,  quite  unusual  with  him,  and 
after  they  had  sat  down  in  the  parlor,  he  told  her  that 
he  had  carried  a  periodical  in  his  pocket  for  several 
days,  which  contained  a  review  of  her  book.  He  had 
hesitated  to  show  it  to  her,  knowing  that  it  would  give 
her  pain  ;  but  he  had  concluded,  as  it  was  written  in  a 
kind  spirit,  that  she  ought  to  see  it.  The  doctor's  eyes 
were  moist  with  sympathy  for  his  daughter,  and,  as  he 
handed  her  the  journal,  so  heavily  freighted  with  pain 
for  her,  he  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  with  un 
wonted  tenderness,  and  said :  "  You  must  not  let  it 
trouble  you,  Fanny.  Rise  above  it — rise  above  it." 

Fanny  took  the  heavy  pamphlet,  and,  without  say 
ing  a  word,  retired  to  read  it  alone.  If  she  had  not 
risen  above  it,  she  had  risen  to  it.  Disappointment  had 


264 

been  piled  upon  her  so  heavily,  that  she  felt  herself 
growing  desperately  strong.  It  was  a  review  of  several 
pages — discriminating,  kind,  and  conscientious.  The 
writer  professed  to  have  been  attracted  to  the  volume 
by  the  music  of  its  title,  and  then  to  have  read  it  with 
no  small  degree  of  interest  because  of  its  genuine  enthu 
siasm.  It  was  evidently  the  product  of  a  girl  quite 
young,  who  had  the  materials  of  a  noble  womanhood  in 
her,  but  who  should  not  think  of  touching  pen  to  paper 
again  until  the  suns  of  a  luster  or  a  decade  had  ripened 
her.  It  quoted  passages  descriptive  of  natural  scenery, 
to  show  how  well  she  could  write  of  that  which  she  had 
observed,  and  then  copied  sketches  of  life  to  prove  that 
she  knew  nothing  of  life  whatever.  Passages  that 
Fanny  had  regarded  as  the  choicest  in  her  book  she  had 
the  pain  to  see  pointed  out  as  the  evidences  of  her 
youthful  immaturity,  or  of  her  youthful  tendency  tow 
ard  extravagance.  It  spoke  of  her  book  as  a  "  school 
girl  performance,"  and  told  the  writer  that  she  must  not 
hope  to  win  the  ear  and  heart  of  the  world,  until,  by 
genuine  contact  and  sympathy  with  the  world,  she  had 
learned  its  wants,  experienced  in  herself  its  hopes  and 
disappointments,  its  fears  and  its  aspirations,  and  could 
speak  from  a  heart  rendered  tenderly  humane  to  the 
heart  of  humanity.  Under  the  careful  but  faithful 
touch  of  the  critic's  pen,  dream  and  delusion  were  dis 
solved,  and  when  she  had  concluded  the  perusal  of  his 
article,  "  Tristram  Trevanion "  lay  before  her  riddled, 
disembowelled,  and  hacked  so  terribly,  that  the  manes  of 
the  Jewish  dwarf,  if  it  had  been  present,  would  have 
considered  itself  sufficiently  avenged,  even  if  it  had  been 
as  exacting  as  old  Shylock  himself. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  265 

Fanny  closed  the  pamphlet,  raised  it  higher  than  her 
head,  and,  dashing  it  to  the  floor  with  all  her  force,  said  : 
"  I  thank  you,  sir  !  After  this,  I  care  for  nothing.  I 
know  the  worst." 

This  violence  to  the  review  was  not  the  result  of 
anger,  but  of  powerfully  excited  feeling,  that  blindly 
sought  for  some  adequate  mode  of  expression.  She  was 
relieved.  She  felt  that  she  had  read  the  truth,  and  that, 
whatever  the  critical  world  might  have  to  say  further, 
she  had  nothing  to  dread.  She  looked  upon  the  pros 
trate  and  sprawling  pamphlet,  and  nodded  her  head,  and 
pressed  her  lips  together,  and  said,  "  I  thank  you,  sir," 
a  great  many  times. 

The  mental  storm  passed  off  with  abundant  light 
ning,  thunder,  and  wind,  but  no  rain.  Discipline  had 
done  Miss  Gilbert  momentary  good,  at  least ;  but  she 
sighed  when  she  thought  that  her  career  was  hardly 
begun.  What !  must  she  wait  for  long  years  before 
she  could  hope  to  do  any  thing  worthy  of  public  con 
sideration  1  Then  hurrah  for  life  ! 

The  spell  that  had  so  long  held  her  in  thrall  was 
dissipated.  The  fate  of  her  book  was  sealed.  She  had 
no  worthy  praise  to  hope  for  in  connection  with  it,  and 
had  given  up  all  idea  of  reward.  A  thousand  schemes 
were  started  in  her  active  brain,  and  she  was  surprised 
to  find  that  her  desire  for  praise  had  been  essentially  a 
terrible  bondage  to  her  best  life,  and  a  bar  to  her  best 
happiness.  She  had  not,  it  is  true,  fully  comprehended 
the  fact  that  she  had  been  subject  to  the  most  disgusting 
and  demoralizing  slavery,  next  to  the  slavery  of  appe 
tite,  to  which  the  soul  can  voluntarily  bow  its  neck  ;  but 
she  was  conscious,  for  the  time,  of  a  new  sense  of  free- 
12 


266  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

dom,  and  felt  her  soul  expanding  and  strengthening  in 
its  influence. 

But  what  could  she  see  of  life  in  Crampton  ?  She 
would  be  mistress  of  the  little  life  there  was  there,  and 
get  away  as  soon  as  possible  where  it  was  better,  and 
more  abundant.  The  change  came  at  last,  in  a  way  she 
little  anticipated ;  but  meantime,  she  never  relinquished 
the  project  of  having  a  career. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  267 

(tiiob, 


Lm  9i9.i 


CHAPTEE   XY. 

AETniTE  BLAGUE    AWAKES   FKOM  A  PLEASANT   DEEAM.  —  SO  DO 
ME.   AND  MES.   EUGGLES. 

IT  will  be  seen  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  disci 
pline  going  on  among  the  better  characters  engaged  in 
our  story,  during  the  season.  Dr.  Gilbert  had  received 
a  very  decided  shock,  and  was  taught  that  a  strong  will 
is  not  omnipotent.  The  struggle  was  not  so  nearly  fin 
ished  as  it  appeared  when  he  closed  his  memorable  in 
terview  with  Mary  Hammett,  but  it  was  covered  from 
observation.  He  visited  her  school  as  usual,  insisted  on 
her  appearing  at  his  table,  met  her  in  the  street,  and, 
by  dint  of  dogged  determination,  wore  out  his  disap 
pointment  —  compelled  himself  to  bow  to  the  decision 
that  forever  placed  her  beyond  his  possession.  It  hurt 
him,  but  it  humanized  him. 

Mary  Hammett  herself  was  not  without  trials.  It 
was  a  trial  to  meet  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  it  had  become  so 
much  a  trial  to  encounter  Arthur  Blague,  that  she  en 
deavored  to  shun  him.  She  would  give  him  no  private 
opportunity  to  speak  to  her.  She  constantly  feared  the 
introduction  of  a  subject  that  could  result  only  in  pain 


268 

to  him  and  to  her.  Her  quiet  had  been  disturbed  more 
than  once  during  the  summer  by  the  intrusion  of  Mr. 
Dan  Buck,  who  insisted  on  her  paying  him  more 
money.  He  had  drawn  around  him  a  circle  of  dissolute 
companions  in  the  village,  with  whom  he  spent  whole 
nights  of  carousal,  and,  by  threats  of  an  exposure  which 
Mary  could  not  face,  succeeded  in  compelling  from  her 
all  her  hard  earnings. 

Fanny  Gilbert's  discipline  did  not  entirely  cease 
with  the  disappointment  consequent  upon  the  failure  of 
her  book.  When  she  had  decided  for  the  time  to  relin 
quish  her  schemes  for  the  acquisition  of  fame,  and  to 
mingle  with  the  life  around  her,  she  did  not  find  that  life 
ready  to  receive  and  minister  to  her.  Tier  old  com 
panions  had  become  offended  with  her  protracted  exclu- 
siveness,  and,  conceiving  that  she  felt  herself  above 
them,  shunned  her.  Many  of  them  had  read  her  book, 
and,  with  the  meanness  characteristic  of  their  small 
natures,  had  ridiculed  it — adopted  in  irony  its  phrases 
— talked  and  laughed  about  it  on  every  occasion  of  their 
meeting.  They  received  the  volume  as  an  assertion  on 
the  part  of  the  authoress,  of  superiority.  They  felt 
that  they  had  no  defence  but  by  combining,  either  to 
put  her  down,  or  to  set  themselves  up,  by  ignoring  her 
altogether.  She  was  not  invited  to  their  social  gather 
ings.  Many  passed  her  in  the  street  without  seeing 
her.  While  she  wras  engaged  in  her  labor,  she  had  vol 
untarily  isolated  herself  from  them ;  now  that  she  was 
ready  for  their  society,  and  longed  for  their  sympathy, 
they  avoided  her  as  if  she  were  a  tainted  woman.  This 
was  one  of  the  penalties  of  seeking  for  public  praise 
which  she  had  not  anticipated  at  all.  She  had  expected 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  269 

to  be  courted  by  those  who  knew  her,  and  was  disap 
pointed.  Their  unreasonable  jealousy  made  her  angry, 
and,  alas !  hardened  her.  Many  an  evening  Fanny 
walked  her  chamber  alone,  and  revolved  her  trials. 
"  They  shall  court  me,"  said  Miss  Gilbert,  stamping  her 
slippered  foot  upon  the  floor.  "  I'll  make  them.  It's 
in  me,  and  I'll  make  them.  I'm  not  a  bankrupt  yet, 
thank  God !  " 

The  life  of  Arthur  Blague,  after  Mrs.  Ruggles' 
"  valuable  accusation  "  to  the  society  of  Hucklebury  Run 
made  his  appearance,  was  one  of  hard  labor  and  con 
stant  annoyance.  The  proprietor  and  his  family,  and 
the  plausible  villain  who  had  obtained  a  sort  of  mastery 
over  all  of  them,  lost  no  opportunity  to  insult  him. 
Oftentimes  he  was  tempted  to  angry  resentment,  but 
self-control  gave  him  victory  as  often  over  them  and  his 
own  indignant  spirit.  Had  he  not  been  at  work  for 
others — had  he  not  subordinated  his  life  to  the  comfort 
and  support  of  those  whom  Providence  had  placed  in 
his  care — he  would  have  fled.  For  himself,  he  would 
have  endured  nothing ;  but  evermore  there  rose  before 
his  eyes  the  pale  face  of  his  dependent  mother,  and  the 
helpless  little  hands  of  his  brother,  and  he  said  to  him 
self,  "  For  these,  I  endure." 

Besides,  Arthur  had  one  all-absorbing  subject  of 
thought.  It  pervaded,  purified,  and  elevated  his  whole 
nature.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  in  the  morning,  one 
sweet  face  and  form  seemed  hovering  over  his  pillow. 
When  he  closed  them  at  night,  the  same  angel  came  to 
comfort  him,  and  to  walk  with  him  into  the  realm  of 
dreams.  In  the  full  possession  of  one  pure  spirit,  his 
life  seemed  to  himself  a  charmed  one.  He  felt  released 


270  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE  : 

from  the  power  of  temptation,  lifted  above  all  low  aims 
and  mean  resentments,  stimulated  to  faithful  and  unre 
mitting  toil,  softened  into  sympathy  with  all  the  sorrow 
and  trouble  around  him. 

As  he  became  more  thoroughly  absorbed  by  his 
passion  for  Mary  Hammett,  did  he  become  more  afraid 
of  her.  Her  presence  was  almost  painful  to  him.  He 
detected  this  tendency  in  himself,  and  felt  urged  to  al 
most  desperate  efforts  to  counteract  it.  The  more  he 
loved  her — the  more  essential  to  his  life  she  seemed  to 
him — the  more  unapproachable  did  she  appear.  He 
could  not  love  her  more  without  plunging  himself  into 
absolute  despair.  At  length,  he  came  to  feel  that  it 
was  wrong  for  him  to  indulge  in  a  passion  that  must 
wreck  him  forever,  if  its  object  could  not  be  won  ;  and 
he  summoned  all  the  strength  of  his  nature  to  meet  the 
decision  of  the  great  question  before  it  should  be  too 
late. 

What  should  he  do  ?  He  could  not  go  to  Mary 
Hammett,  and  tell  her  to  her  face  that  he  loved  her. 
He  could  not  fall  upon  his  knees,  and  confess  that  his 
life  and  happiness  were  in  her  hands.  He  was  deeply 
conscious  that  his  fate  was  doubtful,  and  he  could  never 
take  denial  from  her  lips.  He  would  write  her  a  letter 
— resort  of  timid  lovers  from  time  immemorial.  Oh  ! 
blessed  pen,  that  will  not  stammer  !  Oh !  brave  ink, 
that  will  not  faint  and  fade  in  the  critical  moment  of  des 
tiny  !  Oh  !  happy  paper,  that  cannot  blush !  Oh !  faithful 
cup,  that  bears  one's  heart's  blood  to  the  lips  one  loves, 
and  spills  no  precious  drop  ! 

Of  the  letters  Arthur  wrote  and  tore  in  pieces,  we 
present  no  record.  One  was  too  cool  and  self-contained, 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  271 

and  so  was  sacrificed.  One  was  too  warm  and  demon 
strative,  and  that  was  destroyed.  But,  on  a  certain 
Monday  morning,  as  he  was  leaving  his  home  for  a  week 
of  labor  at  the  Run,  he  thrust  a  note  into  Mary's  hand 
without  a  word,  and  left  her.  In  it  he  had  poured  out, 
like  wine  upon  an  altar  of  sacrifice,  his  whole  heart. 
He  told  her  how,  from  the  first  moment  of  their  meet" 
ing,  he  had  begun  to  love  her  ;  how  from  that  time  on 
ward  she  had  grown  upon  his  heart,  until  he  felt  that 
life  without  her  would  become  not  only  valueless,  but 
miserable ;  how  she  had  absorbed  his  thoughts,  become 
an  inspiring  power  in  his  life,  grown  to  be  his  purifier  ; 
how,  for  her,  he  was  willing  to  brave  toil  and  poverty, 
and  even  death  itself.  He  deplored  his  own  unworthi- 
ness  of  her,  and  pledged  himself  to  a  whole  life — nay, 
a  whole  eternity — of  effort,  to  make  himself  one  whom 
she  would  not  be  ashamed  to  call  her  lover  and  her 
husband. 

During  the  week  which  followed  the  delivery  of  his 
letter,  Arthur  walked  and  worked  like  one  in  a  dream. 
Abstracted,  he  saw  and  heard  nothing  that  was  going  on 
about  him.  He  went  mechanically  through  his  labor, 
ate  his  meals  as  if  he  were  a  machine,  and  retired  to 
bed  at  night  and  rose  in  the  morning  in  obedience  to 
blind  routine.  When  Mrs.  Joslyn  gave  her  signal, 
"  Sh-h-h-h  !  "  he  repeated  it,  under  a  vague  impression 
that  she  was  scaring  chickens  out  of  the  house.  When 
Cheek  inquired  what  time  it  was,  he  replied  that  he  was 
very  well  indeed — never  better,  in  fact.  He  surprised 
the  proprietor  one  morning  by  shaking  his  hand,  and 
inquiring,  with  great  apparent  interest,  for  his  health,  i 
On  being  told  testily  that  he  was  half-dead,  Arthur 


272  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

thanked  him  for  the  information,  and  declared  further 
that  he  was  very  happy  to  hear  it — hoped  he  would 
continue  so. 

Saturday  night  came  again,  and  he  started  as  usual 
for  Crampton.  He  had  received  no  reply  to  his  letter, 
but  he  knew  that  before  he  should  return  to  the  Run? 
his  fate  would  be  decided.  He  dreaded  to  enter  his 
home,  for  he  felt  that  it  held,  and  would  soon  reveal, 
the  secret  of  his  fate.  He  looked  haggard  and  pale,  as 
if  he  had  worked  and  watched  for  a  month.  His  mother 
met  him  with  many  anxious  inquiries — wondered  what 
had  wrought  such  a  change  in  him,  and  wept  to  think 
that  her  boy  was  killing  himself  for  her.  Miss  Ham- 
mett  was  frightened  when  she  read  the  lines  which  one 
long  week  of  anxiety  had  engraved  upon  his  face.  She 
was  calm,  sober,  and  reserved.  She  had  a  sisterly 
affection  for  the  young  man,  such  as  she  felt  for  no 
other,  and  it  pained  her  beyond  expression  to  be  deprived 
of  the  privilege  of  sympathizing  with  him.  She  felt  al 
most  guilty  for  being  the  cause  of  his  pain.  She  would 
have  been  glad  to  throw  herself  upon  her  knees  before 
him,  and  ask  him  to  forgive  her  for  something — she 
knew  not  what — to  lay  her  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and 
whisper  words  of  consolation  to  him. 

The  Sabbath  passed  away,  and  Arthur  received  no 
reply  to  his  letter.  She  hardly  spoke  to  him  during 
the  day,  but  confined  herself  to  her  room.  His  mother 
was  conscious  that  there  was  some  momentous  secret 
between  them,  but  did  not  guess  its  nature.  On  Mon 
day  morning,  just  as  Arthur  was  opening  the  door  to 
leave  his  home  for  another  week,  he  heard  steps  upon 
the  stairs,  and,  turning  around,  saw  Mary  Hammett  de- 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  273 

scending.  He  stood,  uttered  no  word,  received  from 
her  hand  a  folded  note,  and  left  the  house. 

Did  he  open  the  note  the  moment  he  was  out  of  the 
village  ?  Not  at  all.  He  felt  that  he  had  a  great  work 
to  do  before  it  would  be  proper  for  him  to  read  one  word. 
As  he  trod  the  accustomed  walk,  there  was  a  voice  in  his 
soul  that  said :  "  Young  man,  the  decision  of  your  des 
tiny  is  in  the  hand  of  no  woman,  however  angelic.  It 
is  in  your  own.  If  your  life  is  lost,  it  will  be  lost  be 
cause  you  are  weak." 

Straightway,  he  felt  every  power  within  him  sum 
moned  to  a  great  effort.  His  head  was  as  clear  as  the 
heaven  above  him ;  his  heart  as  calm  as  the  early  morn 
ing  landscape.  Out  before  his  imagination  ran  two 
paths.  In  one,  he  saw  himself  walking  alone.  Thorns 
were  under  his  feet,  clouds  were  over  his  head ;  feeble 
men  and  women  and  children  were  begging  on  either 
side  for  help ;  great  hills  and  rocks  rose  in  the  distance ; 
but  far  off  the  path  climbed  to  the  sky,  and  faded  into  a 
heavenly  light.  In  the  other,  he  walked  with  an  angel 
in  sweet  converse,  forgetful,  in  his  bliss,  of  all  the  woes 
beneath  the  sun.  Broad  trees  stretched  their  shadows 
over  him,  silver  brooks  murmured  in  the  sunshine,  and 
birds  filled  all  the  air  with  music.  But  the  path  was 
level,  and  by  its  side  sat  a  feeble  woman,  with  a  balbe 
upon  her  knee,  imploring  him  not  to  forget  her  and  the 
little  one  left  to  his  protection.  At  the  parting  of  the 
paths  stood  two  figures  with  folded  hands,  waiting  to 
hear  the  decision  which  the  letter  contained,  and  ready 
to  conduct  him — Duty  and  Inclination — equally  eager 
to  be  his  escort. 

All  this  .seemed  to  Arthur  like  a  heavenly  vision. 
12* 


274:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEE: 

Perhaps  it  was — perhaps  it  was  no  more  than  the  result 
of  a  profoundly  moved  imagination.  The  task  to  which 
he  felt  summoned  had  called  in  the  aid  of  every  external 
spiritual  force  around  him.  Shall  \ve  doubt  that  toward 
an  insufficient  soul,  that,  in  a  great  emergency,  throws 
itself  wide  open  to  God's  spiritual  universe,  spiritual 
forces  rush,  as  a  million  miles  of  conscious  atmosphere 
leap  to  fill  a  vacuum  ? 

From  whatever  source  the  vision  came,  it  impressed 
Arthur  like  a  reality.  He  saw  these  two  paths  as  dis 
tinctly  as  if  they  had  been  presented  in  very  materiality 
to  his  vision ;  and  he  stopped  where  they  parted  from 
each  other.  Then  he  drew  forth  the  letter,  broke  the 
seal,  kissed  it  as  if  there  were  a  soul  in  it,  and  read  it 
through,  every  word.  He  kissed  the  name  that  sub 
scribed  the  revelation,  and  two  big  tears  bathed  the 
page  while  he  did  it.  Then  he  commenced  at  one  side 
of  the  sheet,  and  slowly  tore  the  whole  into  ribbons, 
then  tore  the  ribbons  into  squares,  and  sowed  them 
upon  the  wind.  He  stood  for  a  minute  like  one  en 
tranced,  gazing  into  vacancy,  and  then  the  sound  of  a 
distant  bell  recalled  him  to  consciousness.  He  turned, 
as  if  expecting  to  see  the  two  paths  still,  and  ready  to 
give  his  hand  to  Duty,  but  only  the  old  familiar  path  to 
the  Run  lay  before  him — marvellously  like  the  rugged 
passage  of  his  vision,  with  the  glorious  morning  sun 
blazing  upon  the  mountain-top  that  stood  far  off  against 
the  sky. 

He  could  not  account  for  the  strange  strength  that 
filled  him — the  strange  joy  that  thrilled  him.  Uncer 
tainty,  that  had  brooded  with  uneasy  and  harassing 
wings  over  his  heart,  had  flown.  Doubt,  that  like  a 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  275 

heavy  cloud  had  clung  around  his  head,  had  been  drunk 
up  by  the  morning  light.  Fear,  that  had  haunted  him 
night  and  day  like  a  ghost,  had  fled.  It  was  a  relief  to 
know  that  all  his  precious  hopes  were  blasted.  He 
realized,  for  the  first  time,  how  his  blind  love  had  debili 
tated — almost  paralyzed  him ;  how,  forgetful  of  God 
and  men,  and  all  his  youthful  purposes  and  aims,  he  had 
allowed  his  passion  to  quench  the  fire  of  his  young 
manhood.  He  walked  onward  to  recommence  his  daily 
labor,  feeling  that  a  great  burden  had  been  lifted  from 
his  shoulders,  content  that  the  question  had  been  de 
cided  against  him.  The  possibilities  of  his  life  had 
never  seemed  so  great  as  now.  He  had  never  felt  so 
free.  If  there  was  sorrow  in  his  cup,  there  was  exulta 
tion  also. 

One  by  one  the  expressions  of  Mary's  letter  came 
up,  and  passed  before  his  mind,  and  he  gained  new 
strength  from  each.  "  Arthur  Blague,  I  admire  you. 
Would  God  I  could  tell  you  with  how  strong  a  sis 
terly  affection  I  love  you.  Be  a  man.  Overcome  this 
passion  of  your  youth.  Do  not  let  me  be  disappointed 
in  you.  Do  not  compel  me  to  sacrifice  my  admiration 
and  love  for  you,  by  any  weak  repinings  over  your  dis 
appointment.  Deal  in  a  manly  way  with  the  trials  of 
the  present,  and  the  future  will  not  fail  to  be  generous 
to  you."  Then  there  were  other  words,  that  gave  him 
deeper  thought  than  these,  words  burnt  into  his  mem 
ory,  legible  then  not  only,  but  through  all  his  after-life ; 
words,  too,  into  whose  full  meaning  his  after-life  intro 
duced  him.  "You  tell  me  that  I,  a  poor,  imperfect 
woman,  obliged  to  kneel  and  beg  daily  for  the  pardon 
of  my  sins,  have  become  to  you  a  purifier — nay,  you 


276 

use  that  higher  word  which  you  should  not  use  in  such 
an  unworthy  connection — your  sanctifier.  You  tell  me 
that  your  love  for  me  has  given  you  freedom  from 
temptation,  and  compelled  you  to  look  with  aversion 
and  disgust  upon  all  sordid  and  sensual  things — that  it 
has  softened  your  heart,  and  elevated  your  life.  If  this 
is  all  true— and  I  will  not  doubt  you,  though  what  you 
say  sadly  humbles  me,  conscious,  as  I  must  be,  of  my 
own  unworthiness — what  would  as  strong  a  love  for  One 
who  is  altogether  lovely  do  for  you  1  If  I  have  had 
this  influence  upon  you,  through  your  love  for  me,  what 
shall  be  the  influence  of  Him  who  has  room  in  his  heart 
for  all  the  hearts  that  have  ever  throbbed,  or  ever  shall 
throb,  in  the  world  ?  I  would  not  obtrude  upon  you  a 
thought  like  this,  in  a  letter  like  this,  did  I  not  feel  that 
in  it  lies  the  cure  of  greater  disappointments,  if  such  there 
be,  than  that  which  this  letter  will  give  you.  Receive 
it,  Arthur  Blague.  Think  upon  it,  and  God  grant  that 
it  may  lead  you  into  a  wealth  of  blessedness  such  as 
earthly  love  can  never  bestow  !  " 

Busy  with  his  thoughts,  and  revolving  the  words  of 
the  wonderful  letter  he  had  read,  Arthur  had  nearly 
reached  the  hill  that  overlooked  the  factory  at  Huckle- 
bury  Run,  when  a  horse's  head  made  its  appearance 
over  the  brow,  and,  following  it,  the  familiar  travelling 
establishment  of  the  proprietor.  As  he  met  the  car 
riage,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  see  who  could  be  setting  out 
so  early,  and  recognized  Mr.  Dan  Buck  and  the  pro 
prietor's  daughter,  Leonora.  From  the  evening  of  his 
parting  with  Leonora,  she  had  not  recognized  him  as  an 
acquaintance,  and  he  and  Dan  Buck  were  on  no  friendly 
terms  of  intercourse.  He  expected  some  insult,  and 


AK  AMERICAN   STORY.  277 

was  greatly  surprised  when  that  young  man  drew  rein, 
and  greeted  him  with  a  very  polite  "  good  morning." 

"  I  wish  you  would  look  round  and  see  to  things  a 
little  to-day,"  said  Dan  Buck.  "  The  old  man  is  under 
the  weather." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  "  inquired  Arthur. 

"  Well,  between  you  and  me,  I  think  he's  got  the 
pip,"  replied  Dan  Buck,  nudging  Leonora  with  his 
elbow,  and  thereby  setting  her  to  giggling. 

Arthur  did  not  smile.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  it. 
Neither  the  man  nor  his  weak  and  vain  companion  had 
ever  seemed  so  contemptible  to  him  before.  So,  with 
out  noticing  his  reply,  he  asked  him  where  he  was 
going. 

"  Oh  !  we  are  only  going  to  have  a  little  drive  over 
to  Littleton.  I've  got  some  business  to  do  there,  and 
Leonora  thought  she'd  take  a  ride  with  me.  We  are 
going  to  make  a  day  of  it,  and  if  the  old  man  raises  a 
row,  you  can  tell  him  that  we  shall  not  be  back  till 
late."  Then  Mr.  Buck  turned  to  the  horse,  hit  him  a 
stinging  blow  with  the  whip,  and  yelling,  "  Let  out  the 
links,"  drove  off  at  a  furious  rate. 

Arthur  paused,  and  looked  after  the  departing  pair. 
There  had  been  something  in  Dan  Buck's  manner  and 
in  Leonora's  appearance,  that  impressed  him  with  pecu 
liar  apprehension.  Something,  he  was  sure,  was  not 
right.  He  tried  to  analyze  his  impressions,  but  they 
were  too  vague  for  analysis.  He  was  only  conscious  of 
a  conviction  that  there  was  mischief  on  foot,  and  that 
there  was  a  mutual  understanding  of  its  nature  between 
Dan  Buck  and  Leonora.  Arriving  at  the  factory,  he 
went  about  his  labor  as  usual,  and  nothing  occurred  until 


278  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

mid-afternoon  to  recall  the  meeting  of  the  morning.  At 
that  time  the  wife  of  the  proprietor  came  sailing  into 
the  mill,  carrying  her  usual  quantity  of  canvas  and 
bunting,  and  meeting  Arthur,  inquired  with  a  great  deal 
of  dignity  whether  Dan  Buck  had  returned.  On  being 
answered  in  the  negative,  she  asked  if  he  had  informed 
any  one  before  leaving  how  long  he  should  be  gone. 
Arthur  told  her  of  his  meeting  Buck  and  her  daughter 
on  the  hill,  and  of  the  statement  of  the  former,  that 
they  should  make  a  day  of  it. 

"  Father'll  be  awful  pervoked,"  said  Mrs.  Ruggles, 
with  a  very  solemn  look. 

"  Mr.  Ruggles  is  not  well,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Arthur 
interrogatively. 

"  No ;  he's  been  kind  o'  down  t'  the  heel  for  some 
time — its  a  rising  of  the  vitals,  I  tell  him.  He  was 
dreadful  bad  in  the  night,  and  Mr.  Buck  said  he'd  got 
some  stuff  that  would  settle  his  stomach  for  him,  but  it 
didn't  seem  to  work  the  way  he  wanted  to  have  it,  and 
he  can't  keep  nothin'  down  at  all  now." 

"  You  can  tell  Mr.  Ruggles  that  every  thing  is  going 
on  right  in  the  mill,"  said  Arthur ;  and  the  ponderous 
lady  set  her  sails  for  the  voyage  homeward.  She  had 
proceeded  but  a  short  distance  when  she  turned  back,  to 
inquire  of  Arthur  if  Mr.  Buck  had  informed  him  where 
he  was  going.  Arthur  replied  that  he  spoke  of  going 
to  Littleton  on  business.  "  What  business  can  he  have 
at  Littleton ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ruggles,  and  then  she 
moved  off  again. 

Evening  came,  but  Mr.  Buck  did  not  come  with  it. 
Again  and  again  did  the  wife  of  the  proprietor  visit  the 
mill,  to  inquire  if  any  thing  had  been  seen  or  heard  of 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  279 

him.  The  hours  of  labor  closed,  and  one  after  another 
the  lights  of  the  village  were  extinguished,  yet  no  sound 
of  horse's  feet  upon  the  bridge  brought  relief  to  the 
anxiously  waiting  ears  in  the  house  of  the  proprietor. 
On  the  following  morning,  at  the  break  of  day,  there 
came  a  violent  rapping  at  the  door  of  Big  Joslyn. 
Arthur  heard  it,  and  hearing  his  own  name  pronounced, 
dressed  hurriedly,  and  found  awaiting  him  the  anxious 
face  of  Mrs.  Euggles. 

"  Arthur,  you  must  come  right  up  to  the  house,  just 
as  quick  as  you  can,"  said  the  breathless  woman. 
"  We're  afraid  something  dreadful  has  happened  to 
Leonora.  We  haven't  seen  hide  nor  hair  of  neither  of 
'em  yet,  and  they  must  have  tipped  over  coming  home 
in  the  night.  Oh  !  I'm  so  worried  that  it  seems  as  if  I 
should  die.  If  Leonora  should  be  brung  home  a  corpse, 
it  would  just  about  finish  me  off.  Oh !  I'm  so  phthys- 
icky  !  "  The  poor  woman  sat  down  on  the  door-step, 
and  held  her  hands  against  her  heart  in  genuine  dis 
tress. 

Arthur  seized  his  cap,  and  ran  for  the  house,  leaving 
Mrs.  Ruggles  to  come  at  her  convenience.  Arriving  at 
the  door  of  the  proprietor,  he  knocked,  and  was  told 
feebly  to  "  come  in."  Before  him,  half-dressed,  and 
looking  terribly  haggard  and  miserable,  sat  Mr.  Rug- 
gles.  Apprehension  and  anger  struggled  for  predom 
inance  in  the  expression  of  his  jaundiced  features. 

"  Do  you  remember  where  the  key  of  the  safe  used 
to  be  kept  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Ruggles  of  Arthur. 

"  Certainly." 

"  Do  you  remember  my  little  tin  trunk,  with  a  pad 
lock  on  it  ?  " 


280 

"  Certainly." 

"  Open  the  safe,  take  out  the  trunk,  lock  the  safe 
again,  and  bring  the  key  to  me — quick  !  " 

There  was  something  in  this  speech  so  full  of  sus 
picious  impatience,  that  Arthur  sprang  to  do  the  old 
man's  bidding  as  if  it  had  stung  him.  He  was  gone 
but  a  minute,  when  he  returned,  and  informed  the  pro 
prietor  that  the  key  was  neither  in  its  accustomed  place 
of  deposit,  nor  in  the  lock  of  the  safe.  The  veins  swelled 
rigidly  and  painfully  upon  the  brow  of  the  proprietor, 
and  notwithstanding  his  feebleness,  he  rose  and  walked 
the  room,  his  lips  pressed  together,  and  every  muscle 
of  his  face  as  tense  as  if  braced  to  master  a  terrific  spasm 
of  pain. 

"  Look  for  that  key  again,"  said  Mr.  Kuggles  fiercely, 
"  and  if  you  cannot  find  it,  get  a  crowbar  and  open  the 
safe,  if  you  have  to  break  it  in  pieces.  Don't  come 
back  here  without  the  trunk." 

Off  sprang  Arthur  again,  fully  possessed  now  of  the 
master's  impatient  spirit.  He  sought  for  the  key,  but 
he  could  not  find  it.  At  this  time,  the  workmen  were 
beginning  to  come  into  the  mill.  The  machinist  of  the 
establishment  was  among  them,  and  Arthur  bade  him 
bring  his  strongest  tools  and  open  the  safe  in  the  quick 
est  way,  even  if  he  should  ruin  it.  It  was  a  difficult 
task.  Bars  and  chisels  and  sledges  were  called  into 
active  requisition.  The  operatives  gathered  round  in 
wonder  to  watch  the  strange  movements,  and  were  full 
of  speculations  as  to  their  cause.  At  length  an  im 
pression  was  made.  A  plate  was  loosened — bolt-heads 
were  knocked  off — a  huge  bar  had  got  a  bite  at  some 
vulnerable  point — hinges  were  burst,  and  -the  contents 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  281 

of  the  safe  were  revealed.  Bidding  a  man  to  keep  guard 
over  the  contents  of  the  safe,  Arthur  seized  the  little 
trunk  in  which  the  manufacturer  kept  his  most  important 
p'apers,  and  was  about  to  start  upon  a  run  with  it  to 
the  house,  where  he  was  awaited  so  anxiously,  when  he 
discovered  that  the  hasp  was  broken.  A  closer  ex 
amination  showed  that  it  had  been  carefully  filed  off. 
He  called  those  around  him  to  witness  the  fact,  and 
then  ran  to  the  house  of  the  proprietor  as  swiftly  as  his 
feet  could  carry  him.  The  moment  he  opened  the  door, 
old  Euggles  yelled,  "  What  the  devil  have  you  been 
doing  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  Breaking  the  safe  in  pieces,  as  you  bade  me,"  re 
plied  Arthur,  upon  whose  face  the  beaded  perspiration 
hung  plentifully. 

"  You  didn't  look  for  the  key,  you  hound ! "  said  old 
Ruggles  savagely,  fumbling  at  the  same  time  in  his 
pocket  for  the  key  of  the  trunk. 

"  I  think  you'll  be  able  to  open  that  without  any 
key,"  replied  Arthur  with  bitterness.  The  old  man 
took  hold  of  the  parted  hasp,  and  lifting  it,  said,  "  Who 
did  this  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  You  lie  !  " 

"  Half  the  hands  in  the  mill  are  witnesses  that  the 
trunk  was  broken  when  the  safe  was  opened." 

"  You  lie ! "  growled  the  old  man,  hesitating  to  lift 
the  lid  of  the  trunk,  and  striving  to  resist  his  convictions 
of  the  truth  by  abusing  Arthur. 

"  Mr.  Ruggles,"  said  Arthur,  with  such  calmness  as 
he  could  command,  "  you  are  in  trouble.  If  you  want 
any  help  from  me,  you  must  not  treat  me  like  a  dog, 


282 

If  others  nave  been  untrue  to  you,  it  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  abuse  me." 

The  old  man  looked  up  into  Arthur's  face  vacantly, 
still  hesitating  to  open  the  trunk.  Finally  he  lifted  the 
lid,  moaning,  "  My  God  !  my  God  !  If  he  has  done  it !  " 
He  took  up  paper  after  paper,  and  file  after  file,  and 
ran  them  over  and  examined  them.  Then  he  examined 
them  again,  as  if  unwilling  to  admit,  even  to  himself, 
that  he  had  been  robbed.  At  length,  he  leaned  back  in 
the  chair,  and  groaned,  and  wrung  his  hands  in  agony. 
After  giving  vent  to  his  feelings,  his  excitement  faded, 
and  he  said :  "  Arthur,  don't  be  mad  with  me.  You 
must  stick  to  rne  now,  and  help  me  through.  This 
damnable  villain  has  poisoned  me  and  robbed  me.  Now 
you  must  take  one  of  the  team-horses,  and  drive  to  the 
Littleton  Bank,  and  inquire  if  a  draft  of  mine  for  five 
thousand  dollars  has  been  cashed  there,  If  it  has,  Dan 
Buck  is  a  robber,  and  has  run  away.  Find  Leonora, 
and  bring  her  back.  She  has  plenty  of  friends  in  Little 
ton,  and  very  likely  you  will  meet  her  on  the  way 
home." 

These  directions  were  given  with  comparative  calm 
ness,  but  it  was  the  calmness  of  weakness — the  speaker 
gasping  at  every  sentence.  His  excitement  had  been 
too  much  for  him,  and  he  leaned  back  in  the  chair  ut 
terly  overcome.  Arthur  left  him  with  his  wife,  who, 
only  half-comprehending  the  state  of  affairs,  was  busy 
ing  herself  with  arranging  the  breakfast-table. 

Without  stopping  for  breakfast  or  change  of  apparel, 
Arthur  harnessed  a  horse,  and  drove  him  to  the  Little 
ton  Bank,  a  distance  of  five  or  six  miles,  and  reached  it 
as  the  clerk  was  taking  down  the  shutters.  Arthur 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  283 

made  his  inquiry  concerning  the  draft,  and  found  that 
the  fears  of  the  proprietor  were  realized.  It  had  been 
cashed  nearly  twenty -four  hours  before,  at  the  moment 
of  opening  the  bank,  and  Dan  Buck,  with  the  proprietor's 
daughter,  had  immediately  driven  out  of  the  village. 
Of  this  latter  fact,  Arthur  took  further  means  of  satis 
fying  himself.  Dan  Buck  and  Leonora,  both,  were 
known  to  many  people  in  Littleton,  and  several  of  the 
villagers  had  seen  them  on  their  leaving  the  town.  The 
horse,  they  testified,  had  been  cruelly  driven;  but  as 
they  knew  the  young  man  to  be  "  fast,"  they  had  not 
thought  of  the  matter  further.  The  road  by  which  they 
left  was  that  leading  to  the  Connecticut  River,  and  as 
there  was  no  considerable  town  upon  the  way,  Arthur 
suspected  at  once  that  they  had  taken  the  shortest 
road  to  the  New  York  stage-lines,  and  that  they  were 
already  far  on  their  way  to  the  city. 

The  young  man  lost  no  time,  but  drove  directly 
back  to  Hucklebury  Run,  as  rapidly  as  his  clumsy 
horse  could  carry  him.  During  his  absence,  Mr.  Rug- 
gles  and  his  wife  had  made  some  discoveries.  They 
found  that,  by  some  means,  Leonora  had  managed  to 
take  away  with  her  her  choicest  dresses,  all  her  jewelry, 
and  such  necessary  articles  of  apparel  as  it  was  possible 
to  carry  in  a  small  space.  The  horrible  suspicion  that 
she  was  a  participator  in  the  robber's  guilt,  and  had  fled 
with  him,  had  fastened  itself  upon  both  father  and 
mother;  and  bitter  were  the  maledictions  which  the 
former  visited  upon  the  head  of  the  latter.  In  his 
terror  he  raved  like  a  man  insane ;  and  in  his  anger  he 
cursed  his  wife  for  the  encouragement  she  had  given  not 


284  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEER: 

only  Dan  Buck,  but  every  young  man  who  had  visited 
the  house. 

Arthur  drove  up  to  the  door,  almost  as  deeply  ex 
cited  as  those  who  awaited  his  coming.     There  were 
but  few  questions  asked.     Both  the  proprietor  and  his 
wife  showed  in  their  faces  the  terrible  anguish  and  a 
prehension  that  held  them  in  possession.     Arthur  ga 
a  simple  detail  of  what  he  had  heard — the  fact  that  the 
draft  had  been  cashed,  that  both  Buck  and  Leonora  left 
Littleton  together  on  the  road  leading  to  the  river,  and 
that  the  horse  had  been  cruelly  driven. 

The  confirmation  of  the  old  man's  fears  was  accom 
panied  by  demonstrations  of  feeling  the  most  pitiful  that 
can  be  conceived.  The  theft  of  his  money,  by  the  un 
grateful  hands  of  his  clerk,  was  a  great  trial,  but  it  was 
accompanied  by  a  calamity  so  much  greater,  that  it  was 
lost  sight  of  altogether.  That  his  petted  Leonora,  his 
only  child,  on  whom  he  had  lavished  all  the  affection 
there  was  in  his  nature — whose  desires  had  been  his 
law,  and  whose  indulgence  his  delight — should  become 
either  the  mistress  or  the  wife  of  a  wretch  like  Dan 
Buck,  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  wept,  he 
whined,  he  cursed  by  turns.  He  blasphemously  called 
upon  God  to  tell  him  what  he  had  done,  that  he  must 
be  thus  forsaken  to  disgrace  and  madness.  Arthur 
listened  in  horror,  till  he  saw  that  the  proprietor's  emo 
tions  were  such  as  to  destroy  his  power  of  action,  and 
then  he  suggested  that  there  should  be  a  pursuit. 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  chair,  and  tottering  on 
his  way  across  the  room,  came  up  to  Arthur  and  leaned 
heavily  upon  his  shoulder.  The  young  man  felt  awk 
ward  under  this  demonstration  of  dependence,  and  still 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  285 

more  embarrassed  when  the  weak  and  half-crazed  pro 
prietor  put  his  arms  around  him,  and  sobbed  and  whined 
in  his  helpless  grief. 

"  Arthur,  I've  been  hard  on  you,  but  you  musn't 
mind  it.  You're  the  best  friend  I've  got  in  the  world," 
said  he,  in  his  whimpering  voice.  "  Do  what  you  can 
to  get  Leonora  back.  Oh !  if  you'll  only  bring  her  back 
safe,  I'll  give  a  thousand  dollars ;  and  just  as  soon  as 
you're  twenty-one,  I'll  make  you  a  partner  in  my  busi 
ness." 

Arthur  shrank  from  the  embrace  of  the  proprietor, 
as  if  he  had  been  a  snake.  He  pitied  him  certainly, 
but  he  despised  him  still.  The  idea  that  money,  or  ad 
vancement  in  business,  would  be  a  more  powerful  mo 
tive  than  simple  humanity,  or  neighborly  kindness,  in 
securing  his  good  offices  in  the  emergency  of  the  hour, 
disgusted  him.  He  put  off  the  old  man's  hands,  and 
standing  away  from  him,  said :  "  What  I  do  for  you, 
I  do  for  a  man  in  trouble,  Mr.  Ruggles.  My  good 
will  is  not  in  the  market.  Keep  your  offers  for  other 
times." 

"  Well,  do  what  you  can,  Arthur — do  it  your  own 
way ; "  and  the  proprietor  sank  into  his  chair  again, 
with  a  groan. 

Arthur  departed,  telling  the  disconsolate  pair  that 
he  should  probably  be  back  at  night.  Going  to  his 
boarding-house,  he  snatched  a  hasty  meal,  and  procuring 
a  horse  from  a  neighbor,  he  mounted  him,  and  rode 
rapidly  off  to  the  nearest  stage-line  station.  It  was  a 
ride  of  twenty  miles,  and  it  was  mid-afternoon  before 
he  reached  it.  On  his  way  he  met  Dr.  Gilbert,  who 
was  out  on  a  professional  trip.  Making  known  to  him 


286  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

the  nature  of  his  errand,  and  informing  him  of  the  con 
dition  of  Mr.  Ruggles,  he  suggested  that  on  his  way 
home  he  should  call  upon  him,  and  do  something  for 
his  relief. 

.Arriving  at  the  stage-house,  he  rode  his  horse  di 
rectly  into  the  stable,  and  saw  before  him,  standing  in 
a  stall,  the  proprietor's  horse  with  which  Dan  Buck  had 
absconded.  Throwing  his  bridle  to  the  hostler,  and  giv 
ing  him  directions  to  feed  and  groom  his  horse,  he  sought 
in  the  shed  for  the  familiar  wagon,  and  found  it  at  once. 
He  had  little  doubt  that  Dan  Buck  had  left  the  house,  but 
deemed  it  a  proper  precaution,  before  claiming  the  horse 
and  wagon,  to  make  inquiries.  At  the  office,  he  learned 
that  Dan  Buck  and  Miss  Ruggles  had  arrived  there  the 
day  before,  just  in  time  to  take  the  downward  day- 
coach,  and  had  gone  to  New  York,  leaving  word  to  have 
the  horse  and  wagon  taken  care  of  until  they  should  re 
turn.  The  office  clerk  informed  Arthur  that  the  horse 
had  evidently  been  driven  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  and 
that  he  came  in  wet,  trembling,  and  staggering.  In  fact, 
the  hostler  had  worked  over  him  half  of  the  night. 
Arthur  informed  him  of  the  facts  in  the  case,  paid  him 
for  the  keeping  of  the  horse,  and  having  fully  satisfied 
himself  that  Dan  Buck  and  Leonora  had  fled  together, 
turned  homeward,  driving  the  lamed  and  jaded  horse 
of  the  proprietor,  and  leading  the  one  he  had  ridden^ 
behind  the  wagon* 

His  passage  homeward  was  slow,  and  he  did  not 
reach  the  Run  until  nine  o'clock.  As  he  drove  up  to 
the  house,  Mrs.  Ruggles  made  her  appearance,  and  came 
out  to  the  wagon.  "  Don't  make  any  noise,  Arthur," 
said  the  woman,  "  for  father  has  made  out  to  get  to 


AN   AMEKICAN   STOKY.  287 

sleep.  The  doctor  has  been  here,  and  got  down  a  por 
tion  of  laudlum,  and  says  he  musn't  be  disturbed." 

Arthur  had  left  his  saddle-horse  on  the  way,  where 
he  procured  it  in  the  morning,  and  driving  on  to  the 
barn,  he  took  the  harness  from  the  much-abused  animal 
he  had  reclaimed,  and  put  him  in  the  stable.  On  his 
way  back,  he  found  Mrs.  Buggies  still  at  the  door,  with 
a  handkerchief  over  her  head  ;  and  in  a  low  tone  he  im 
parted  to  her  the  particulars  of  his  journey,  and  its  re 
sults. 

Mrs.  Ruggles  had  her  words  of  penitence  to  breathe 
into  the  ear  of  the  young  man,  and,  further,  she  had 
various  matters  to  impart  to  him  in  confidence.  She 
had  noticed  for  some  time  that  Dan  and  Leonora  had 
been  "  uncommon  thick,"  but  she  supposed  they  were 
going  to  be  married — in  fact,  she  had  no  doubt  of  that, 
as  it  was.  She  wasn't,  on  the  whole,  inclined  to  regard 
the  case  so  hopelessly  as  her  husband  did.  She  had  no 
doubt  that  they  would  be  back  before  a  great  while,  and 
she  knew  father  would  forgive  Dan  Buck,  if  he  would 
bring  back  Leonora.  She  was  generous  enough  to  say 
to  Arthur  that  she  did  not  believe  that  Dan  Buck  would 
make  her  daughter  so  good  a  husband  as  the  young  man 
who  stood  before  her,  and  was  obliging  enough  to  in 
form  him  further  that  she  shouldn't  cry  if  there  should 
be  a  change  now. 

Arthur  marvelled  that  the  mother  could  be  so  ob 
tuse,  as  not  to  comprehend  the  fact  that  her  daughter 
was  a  hopelessly  ruined  woman,  and  left  her,  tired,  sick, 
and  disgusted,  with  the  promise  to  call  early  in  the 
morning. 

Morning  came,  and   Arthur  was  admitted  at  the 


288  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

proprietor's  door.  To  his  surprise,  he  found  Mr.  Kug- 
gles  up,  and  dressed  for  a  journey.  He  was  weak  and 
haggard,  but  the  medicine  and  the  sleep  had  restored  to 
him  a  measure  of  strength,  and  a  degree  of  composure 
and  self-control.  The  old  determination  was  in  his  face, 
and  his  eye  burned  fiercely. 

He  put  to  Arthur  a  few  questions,  and  then  told  him 
he  should  follow  the  fugitives.  He  had  already  fed  his 
horse,  and  he  bade  Arthur  throw  the  harness  upon  him, 
and  bring  him  to  the  door.  When  Arthur  drove  up, 
he  found  the  proprietor  waiting,  with  his  portmanteau 
at  his  feet,  and  then  received  from  him  directions  con 
cerning  the  management  of  affairs  in  the  mill  during  his 
absence. 

"  God  only  knows  where  I'm  going,  or  when  I  shall 
come  back,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  feebly  mounted  the 
wagon,  and  drove  away  without  a  word  of  farewell  to 
his  wife,  or  even  a  passing  look  at  his  mill. 


AN   AMEKICAN   STOKY.  289 

.   '  " 


CHAPTER   XYI. 

.  jCif  O7fj';b  itfiiJ'iA  fiofi  //  -    ,£Oob  tfflo  <?•-<••  inir. 

ARTHUR'S  DREAMS,  AND  HUCKLEBURY  RUN  AND  ITS  PROPRIETOR, 
COME  TO  DISSOLUTION. 

WITH  a  start  of  forty-eight  hours,  it  will  readily  be 
seen  that  Dan  Buck  had  all  the  advantage  over  his  pur 
suer  that  he  could  desire.  Familiar  with  travel,  and 
familiar  not  only  with  New  York,  but  with  its  blindest 
retreats,  he  had  abundant  time  to  dispose  of  his  money 
and  of  himself  before  Mr.  Ruggles  drove  away  from  his 
own  door.  It  is  therefore  needless  to  give  the  particu 
lars  of  the  pursuit.  Mr.  Euggles  found  traces  of  the 
guilty  pair,  who  had  registered  themselves  by  assumed 
names  as  man  and  wife,  at  different  points  along  the 
route.  He  even  learned  of  their  passage  on  the  same 
boat  which  bore  him  from  Hartford.  After  arriving  in 
New  York,  however,  every  track  appeared  to  be  cov 
ered.  He  secured  the  offices  of  the  police,  but  they 
could  not  aid  him.  None  of  Dan's  old  friends  had  seen 
him.  His  former  haunts  were  visited  in  vain.  The 
most  probable  theory  was  that  the  villain  had  arrived 
in  the  night,  and  immediately  taken  some  one  of  the 
outgoing  lines  of  travel,  and  sought  for  other  and  more 
13 


290 

distant  hiding-places.  This  supposition  rose  into  a 
strong  probability,  when  it  was  learned  that  a  pair 
closely  corresponding  with  their  description  had  crossed 
to  Jersey  City,  and  taken  passage  in  the  Philadelphia 
coach. 

Still  the  fugitives  were  forty-eight  hours  ahead  of 
their  pursuer — nay,  more ;  for  considerable  time  had 
been  wasted  in  New  York.  Mr.  Euggles  knew  too 
much  to  be  deceived  with  regard  to  the  relations  that 
existed  between  his  daughter  and  the  man  who  had  en 
ticed  her  from  home ;  and  in  the  hours  of  quiet  into 
which  his  weakness  compelled  him,  the  whole  subject 
was  measured  in  all  its  bearings.  Doubtless,  at  that 
moment,  all  Crampton  was  talking  about  the  flight  of 
his  daughter,  and  the  robbery  committed  by  her  par 
amour.  The  proprietor  asked  himself  what  Leonora 
could  ever  be  to  him,  even  should  he  secure  her  return. 
Could  he  have  pride  in  her  again?  Would  not  the 
presence  of  the  tainted  and  ruined  girl  be  a  perpetual 
curse  to  him  1  Would  it  be  any  satisfaction  to  have  a 
daughter  of  whom  he  would  be  ashamed — a  daughter  to 
hide  from  all  pure  eyes  1 

It  could  not  be  expected  of  a  man  like  Mr.  Rug- 
gles,  that  he  should  be  actuated  by  any  higher  views  than 
these.  He  had  for  her  no  love  that  prompted  him,  for 
her  sake,  to  save  her  from  a  life  of  infamy.  When  he 
saw  that  in  Crampton,  where  all  his  interests  lay — 
where  his  active  life  had  been  and  would  continue  to  be 
— she  could  never  again  be  what  she  had  been — could 
never  again  be  the  object  of  his  pride  and  the  source  of 
his  pleasure — his  zeal  for  the  pursuit  of  the  guilty  pair 
was  extinguished.  It  is  true  that  he  thought  how  deso- 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  291 

late  his  home  would  be  without  her,  and  how  little 
there  was  left  for  him  to  live  and  labor  for  ;  but  as  there 
were  comfort  and  consolation  for  him  in  no  direction, 
there  was  but  little  choice. 

Poor  lord  of  Hucklebury  Run  !  Hundreds  had  had 
hard  fare  at  his  hands,  but  few  of  them  all  would  have 
withheld  their  pity  from  him,  could  they  have  looked 
into  his  heart  during  those  sad  hours. 

Immediately  on  the  departure  of  Mr.  Ruggles  from 
home,  Arthur,  by  coming  more  into  contact  with  the 
operatives  than  he  had  done  for  several  months,  found 
an  element  of  insubordination  and  mischief  among  them, 
to  which  the  mill,  under  the  direct  rule  of  the  pro 
prietor,  had  been  always  a  stranger.  He  knew  that 
Dan  Buck  had  insulted  many  of  the  men  and  women, 
especially  the  older  and  more  sedate ;  but  it  was  not 
with  these  that  the  disorder  seemed  to  lie.  It  was  with 
half  a  dozen  young  fellows,  who  had  been  intense  ad 
mirers  of  the  fast  New  Yorker,  who  had  aped  him  in 
his  dress,  learned  and  practiced  his  slang,  grown  profane 
by  his  example,  laughed  at  his  vulgar  drollery,  and 
been  participants  in  those  carousals  which  he  had  de 
lighted  to  call  "  conference  meetings." 

They  took  particular  delight  in  abusing  Arthur. 
They  gathered  in  the  mill,  and  had  long  conversations. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  they  sympathized  thor 
oughly  with  the  robber,  and  that  they  were  anxious  that 
he  should  escape  from  the  clutches  of  the  old  man. 
Openly  they  would  not  justify  him  in  the  robbery  of  his 
employer,  but  they  professed  themselves  to  be  quite 
satisfied  with  the  fact  that  the  latter  had  been  "  bled  "  a 
little.  They  admired  the  boldness  of  the  fellow  in 


292  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

stealing  the  proprietor's  daughter  from  under  his  nose, 
and  hoped  he  would  get  off  with  her.  The  moment  fac 
tory  hours  were  over,  they  either  went  away  from  the 
mill,  to  confer  with  other  cronies  of  the  robber,  or  went 
to  some  private  room  to  consult  with  one  another.  In 
what  direction  all  this  was  tending,  Arthur  could  not 
judge.  He  had  not  been  accustomed  to  regard  the  set 
as  a  very  brave  or  dangerous  one.  It  was  one  that 
Dan  Buck  could  lead  into  any  mischief,  but  not  one,  he 
thought,  that  would  be  apt  to  act  very  boldly  on  its 
own  account.  Cheek  delighted  in  being  Arthur's  right- 
hand  man,  and  brought  to  him  reports  of  such  move 
ments  of  these  young  fellows  as  he  became  acquainted 
with.  Cheek  was  very  much  their  superior  in  natural 
shrewdness,  and  they  had  few  meetings  that  he  did  not 
know  of.  In  fact,  by  conversations  with  them  sepa 
rately,  he  had  learned  that  if  Dan  Buck  should  be 
brought  back  a  prisoner,  they  should  "  rescue  him,  or 
die." 

Arthur  and  Cheek  had,  of  course,  a  good  laugh  over 
this.  It  was  a  harmless  kind  of  braggardism,  that  would 
do  nobody  harm,  and  would  help  to  amuse  the  valiant 
young  men  who  indulged  in  it.  They,  on  the  other 
hand,  evidently  attached  great  importance  to  it.  They 
were  mysterious.  They  conversed  with  each  other  by 
signs.  Had  the  destinies  of  the  world  been  upon  their 
shoulders,  they  could  not  have  felt  the  responsibility 
more  keenly  than  they  did  that  of  being  the  champions 
of  the  honor,  and  defenders  of  the  person,  of  their  old 
leader,  Mr.  Dan  Buck. 

Cheek  had  seen  and  heard  so  much  of  this,  that,  at 
the  end  of  a  week  after  Mr.  Ruggles  left  the  Run  for 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  293 

New  York,  he  determined  to  play  a  joke  upon  the 
doughty  young  gentlemen.  Arthur  had  sent  him  to  a 
neighboring  village  on  an  errand,  and  returning  in  the 
evening,  just  as  the  hands  were  dismissed  from  the  mill, 
he  came  driving  down  the  hill  at  a  furious  rate,  and 
pulled  up  before  the  door  of  the  boarding-house.  Call 
ing  Arthur  to  him,  he  mysteriously  whispered,  suffi 
ciently  loud  for  all  around  to  hear,  "  He's  got  him."  At 
the  same  time,  he  gave  Arthur  a  wink,  which  the  com 
pany  did  not  see,  or  seeing,  did  not  understand.  Ar 
thur  understood  it  perfectly,  and  walked  off  to  his  room  at 
the  house  of  Big  Joslyn. 

The  moment  Arthur  disappeared,  Cheek  was  taken 
bodily  by  half  a  dozen  fellows,  and  led  to  the  trunk- 
room  of  the  lodging-hall,  and  after  the  key  was  turned, 
was  told  to  reveal  all  he  knew  of  the  matter,  or  they 
would  "  get  it  out  of  his  hide," — an  alternative  which 
the  set  kept  constantly  on  hand  for  all  occasions.  Cheek 
did  not  dare  to  tell  them — they  would  do  something,  he 
was  afraid,  that  they  would  be  sorry  for.  After  receiv 
ing  from  them  a  very  comprehensive  variety  of  threats, 
curses,  and  promises,  he,  with  great  apparent  reluctance, 
divulged  the  rumor  that  he  had  heard,  viz.,  that  the  old 
man  had  been  seen  at  the  stage-house,  with  Dan  Buck 
in  irons,  and  Leonora  in  tears,  and  that  all  hands  would 
be  at  the  Run  that  night. 

The  group  of  conspirators  was  evidently  very  much 
excited  by  this  intelligence ;  and  though  the  idea  of  bring 
ing  Dan  Buck  back  to  Hucklebury  Run  in  irons  was  ridic 
ulous  enough  to  make  them  suspicious  of  the  character  of 
the  rumor,  they  were  in  no  mood  to  reason  on  the  sub 
ject.  It  seemed  very  probable  to  them  that  old  Ruggles, 


294  HISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

whom  every  one  believed  to  be  capable  of  any  thing 
when  roused,  would  not  only  succeed  in  arresting  the 
robber,  but  would  delight  in  showing  him  up  among  his 
old  acquaintances.  The  great  wonder  was  that  Dan 
Buck  should  have  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  alive. 
They  questioned  and  cross-questioned  their  saucy  in 
formant,  who  found  himself  obliged  .to  invent  more 
lies  than  he  had  originally  calculated  for,  but  he  was 
equal  to  the  occasion.  They  at  last  dismissed  him, 
threatening  vengeance  if  he  should  ever  report  the  inter 
view. 

Cheek  was  glad  to  be  released.  His  joke  somehow 
looked  serious  to  him.  He  did  not  like  the  appearance 
of  the  fellows  at  all.  A  bottle  was  passed  around  in  his 
presence,  and  he  noticed  that  they  drank  deeply ;  and, 
even  before  he  left  them,  betrayed  the  first  effects  of 
their  potation.  Cheek  did  not  know  but  Jhey  might 
give  Arthur  trouble,  so  he  sought  for  him,  and  related 
to  him  the  events  of  the  trunk-room.  Arthur  was  not 
alarmed,  and  retired  to  bed. 

Cheek  did  not  dream  that  Mr.  Ruggles  was  really 
at  the  stage-house,  as  he  had  said ;  but  that  was  the  fact. 
He  had  given  up  his  pursuit  of  the  fugitives  after  two 
or  three  days  spent  in  New  York,  and  feeling  very  ill 
and  miserable,  had  committed  the  matter  to  the  police, 
and  started  on  his  way  home.  Arriving  at  the  stage- 
house,  where  he  had  left  his  horse,  he  lay  down  a  few 
hours  for  rest,  preferring  to  reach  his  home  in  the  even 
ing.  He  could  not  bear  to  meet  the  inquiring  gaze  and 
words  of  neighbors.  He  shrank  from  the  hundred  eyes 
that  would  peer  out  upon  him  from  his  mill,  and  wit 
ness  his  disgrace  and  defeat.  The  light  distressed  him. 


AN   AMERICAN    STOEY.  295 

Darkness  alone  accorded  with  his  depression — his  help 
less  degradation. 

As  the  sun  went  down,  he  called  for  his  horse,  and 
started  for  the  Run.  The  animal  was  fresh  with  his 
week  of  rest  and  careful  grooming,  and  went  off  briskly 
on  his  way  home.  The  old  man,  haunted  by  his  great 
trial,  and  feebly  cursing  his  hard  fate,  wished  that  he 
were  a  horse — any  thing  but  the  man  he  was.  He  was 
going  back,  he  knew  not  why.  The  charm  of  life  was 
gone.  In  his  weak-minded  and  vulgar  wife,  he  had  no 
refuge.  In  the  love  and  sympathy  of  others,  he  knew 
that  he  had  no  right  and  no  place.  His  life  had  been 
selfish  and  greedy.  For  many  years  his  heart  had  gone 
out  in  affection  toward  only  one  object,  and  that  one 
was  not  only  taken  away  from  him,  but  it  was  forever 
ruined. 

The  distance  rapidly  diminished  that  divided  him 
from  a  home  that  had  no  attractions  for  him  and  no 
meaning — from  duties  that  had  lost  their  significance 
and  their  charm.  At  length  he  arrived  upon  a  hill 
some  five  miles  distant  from  the  Run,  from  which,  in 
the  daytime,  he  could  see  the  tall  chimney  of  the  mill. 
He  pulled  up  his  horse  for  a  moment's  rest,  and  for 
such  calm  reflection  as  the  motion  of  the  wagon  denied 
him.  There  was  no  star  to  be  seen.  The  sky  was  all 
obscured  by  low,  dark  clouds.  As  he  sat  with  his  eyes 
in  the  direction  of  his  home,  whither  his  thoughts  had 
gone,  he  saw  a  faint  light,  as  if,  through  the  clouds,  he 
caught  reflection  of  a  rising  moon.  As  he  gazed,  the 
light  grew  brighter,  then  died  away,  then  grew  again. 
It  was  a  strange  light — not  diffused  over  a  large  space — 
not  soft  and  steady,  but  fitful — sometimes  red,  some- 


296 

times  yellow.  He  watched  it  like  a  man  entranced,  and 
wondered,  questioned  in  fact,  whether  it  were  not  the 
figment  of  his  own  disordered  brain.  He  wiped  his 
eyes,  and  gazed  again ;  and  dimly,  but  certainly,  he 
caught  sight  of  a  tall  shaft,  and  other  familiar  objects 
near  it. 

The  pause  and  the  trance  were  over.  He  struck  his 
horse  a  heavy  blow,  and  started  down  the  long  hill  at  a 
break-neck  pace.  He  relinquished  all  thought  of  guid 
ing  the  animal.  The  reins  hung  loosely  in  his  hands, 
but  the  whip  was  grasped  firmly,  and  used  freely. 

The  horse  was  left  to  find  his  own  way,  while  the 
eye  of  the  driver  was  fastened  upon  the  distant  light  that 
every  minute  grew  broader  and  brighter.  The  low 
clouds  before  him  had  all  changed  to  a  deep,  bloody 
red.  Then  little  tongues  of  flame  leaped  and  faded. 
Then  a  broad  shaft  of  flame  rose,  quivered,  and  fell. 
Then  a  great  spire  of  fire  shot  up,  and  swayed  for  a 
moment,  and  burst  in  myriad  stars  of  fire,  that  were 
swept  away,  and  fell  in  a  crimson  rain. 

The  long  declivity  was  passed,  yet  the  proprietor 
knew  not  how.  His  horse  was  running  fiercely,  and 
breathing  heavily,  with  a  short,  quick  snort  at  every 
straining  leap.  The  wagon  reeled  from  side  to  side  of 
the  road,  but  the  rider,  with  every  muscle  rigid,  seemed 
to  have  grown  to  it,  and  unconsciously  to  manage  to 
keep  it  from  overthrow.  Soon  he  began  to  hear  out 
cries  from  the  farm-houses,  and  to  pass  men  running 
toward  the  light,  that  flamed  more  and  still  more  in 
tensely.  He  passed  dim  faces  that  stopped  and  stood 
still  with  horror  as  he  rushed  wildly  past  them  through 
the  darkness,  and  rained,  with  constantly  increasing 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  297 

madness,  his  blows  upon  the  infuriated  horse.  Bridges, 
hills,  rocks — all  were  alike  unminded  in  that  terrible 
ride. 

One  mile  only  remained  to  be  passed  over,  and  then 
the  whole  country  around  was  alight.  Chimneys  sprang 
out  of  the  darkness  like  ghosts  in  the  reflection  of  the 
flames.  Trees  glowed  like  gold  upon  one  side,  and 
were  wrapped  in  pitchy  darkness  on  the  other.  The  air 
was  wild  with  yells,  and  full  of  falling  cinders,  swept  off 
upon  the  wind.  As  the  proprietor  rushed  on,  growing 
still  more  intensely  excited,  half  a  dozen  men  leaped 
from  the  bushes  before  him,  with  the  intention  to  stop 
his  horse.  Riding  toward  the  light,  both  the  animal  and 
his  driver  were  seen  as  distinctly  as  if  the  sun  had  been 
shining.  The  men  caught  a  quick  glimpse  of  the  flying 
animal  and  the  single  ghostly  passenger,  and  leaped 
back  into  the  cover,  just  in  time  to  save  themselves 
from  the  resistless  wheels,  and  the  vehicle  rushed  on. 

As  the  proprietor  came  to  the  summit  of  the  hill 
that  overlooked  the  mill,  he  saw  that  structure,  which 
he  had  worn  out  a  life  to  build,  enveloped  in  flames  in 
every  part.  The  horse,  as  he  rushed  down  the  hill, 
caught  early  attention  from  the  mass  of  men  and 
women  that  crowded  the  road,  and  with  frenzied  shouts 
they  rushed  in  every  direction  to  escape  him.  The  hill 
was  descended  with  the  same  furious  speed  that  had 
been  maintained  from  the  time  the  first  burst  of  light 
was  discovered. 

Blinded  by  the  blaze,  and  frightened  by  the  heat,  the 

horse  came  opposite  to  the  burning  mass,  and  stopped 

so  suddenly  as  almost  to  throw  the  crazed  proprietor 

from  his  seat.     Then  he  stood  a  moment,  trembling  and 

13* 


298 

smoking,  in  the  fiery  heat,  then  staggered,  and  fell  heav 
ily  upon  the  road,  stone-dead. 

The  moment  the  horse  fell,  his  driver  rose  to  his 
feet  in  the  wagon,  and  faced  the  fire.  The  tumult  all 
around  him  ceased.  Every  eye  was  turned  to  where  he 
stood  in  the  blinding  glare,  his  pale  face  lit  up  by  the 
roaring  flames,  and  his  garments  smoking  in  the  heat. 
Every  tongue  was  silent.  The  proprietor's  sudden  and 
almost  miraculous  appearance,  his  wild  ride  down  the 
hill,  the  fall  of  the  over-driven  animal,  and  the  statue- 
like,  unblinking  gaze  of  those  eyes  into  the  glowing  fur 
nace,  tended  to  impress  them  with  almost  a  supersti 
tious  terror.  His  rigid  attitude  made  them  rigid  ;  his 
silence  hushed  them.  They  expected  to  see  him  fall 
dead  like  his  horse,  or  that  some  chimney  would  reel 
over  and  crush  him. 

At  length,  one  man  broke  the  spell  which  rested 
upon  the  crowd,  and  ran  down  the  road,  shielding  his 
face  from  the  heat  with  his  cap.  As  he  came  up  to  the 
wagon,  he  shouted  to  the  proprietor  to  run  for  his  life. 
The  old  man,  startled  into  action,  leaped  directly  for  the 
flames,  evidently  bent  on  self-destruction.  Arthur 
Blague,  for  it  was  he,  leaped  after  him,  and  grasping 
him  around  the  body,  dragged  him  away  to  where  he 
could  gather  a  single  breath,  and  then  lifted  him  to  his 
feet,  and  led  him  like  a  child  to  his  dwelling.  Mrs. 
Ruggles  was  at  the  door  weeping  and  praying,  but  the 
proprietor  did  not  recognize  her.  He  allowed  himself 
to  be  led  to  his  room,  and  laid  upon  the  bed.  His  face 
already  was  a  mass  of  blisters,  and  he  moaned  piteously. 
Arthur  then  left  him  for  an  hour,  in  the  care  of  his  al 
most  helpless  wife,  and  ran  off  to  do  what  he  could  to 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  299 

save  the  property  in  the  vicinity  of  the  mill.  In  that 
brief  hour,  that  massive  structure,  with  all  its  wealth  of 
cunning  machinery,  dissolved  into  air,  and  nothing  was 
left  but  a  heap  of  red  and  smoking  ruins,  and  the  tall 
chimney,  standing  stark  against  the  wall  of  darkness 
that  moved  in  as  the  flames  went  down,  and  surrounded 
the  ghastly  desolation. 

Groups  of  bareheaded  girls  were  gathered  here  and 
there  without  shelter.  Men,  whose  bread  was  taken 
from  them  by  the  calamity,  stood  bitterly  apart,  and 
thought  of  the  future.  Careless  young  fellows  jested 
and  laughed,  or  went  up  to  the  ruins,  and  lit  their  pipes 
with  a  brand. 

Having  arranged  for  a  watch,  Arthur  returned  to 
the  house  of  the  proprietor,  and  found  him  in  a  raving 
delirium.  Soon  afterwards,  Dr.  Gilbert,  who  had  been 
off  upon  one  of  his  night  trips,  came  in,  and  adminis 
tered  a  powerful  opiate.  The  poor  proprietor  raved 
about  Arthur  as  the  cause  of  all  his  trials  and  reverses, 
and  then  talked  wildly  of  his  daughter  and  her  seducer. 
At  length,  the  dose  took  effect,  and  he  slept.  Arthur, 
utterly  exhausted  by  the  excitements  and  labors  of  the 
evening,  dropped  upon  a  sofa  in  the  room,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  was  locked  in  slumber. 

How  long  he  slept  he  did  not  know ;  but  before  his 
eyes,  in  all  his  troubled  dreams,  the  conflagration  still 
raged  on.  The  voices  of  a  great  multitude  were  ringing 
in  his  ears.  At  last,  in  the  centre  of  the  flames  which 
rose  and  roared  so  wildly  before  his  dream,  there 
swelled  a  grand  column  of  fire,  following  an  explosion 
that  seemed  to  shake  the  very  ground,  and  to  stun  his 
ears  to  deafness.  He  was  awake  in  an  instant,  but  the 


300 

room  was  perfectly  dark.  For  a  moment,  he  did  not 
know  where  he  was.  There  was  a  strange  sound  in  his 
ears — a  gurgling,  difficult  breathing,  like  that  of  a  man 
bestridden  by  an  incubus.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
groped  his  way  to  an  adjoining  room,  where  he  found  a 
light  burning,  and  where  were  gathered  a  dozen  young 
women  who  had  come  in  for  shelter.  They  had  heard 
a  noise,  and  were  frightened  into  speechlessness.  He 
took  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  and  quickly  retracing  his 
steps,  found  the  proprietor  lying  upon  the  floor,  a  sheet 
of  blood  covering  his  face,  and  a  pistol  lying  at  his  side. 
He  had  waked,  had  drunk  in  one  draught  the  cup  of  woe 
which  the  events  of  the  week  had  mixed  for  him,  and, 
maddened  by  the  mixture,  had  deliberately  risen,  and 
with  the  weapon  which  his  fears  had  for  years  kept  at 
his  bedside,  had  blown  out  his  brains.  He  was  quite 
unconscious,  and  a  few  long-drawn,  stertorous  respirations 
finished  the  life  of  the  proprietor  of  Hucklebury  Run. 

It  is  needless  to  enter  into  a  detail  of  the  events  imme 
diately  following  the  tragic  end  of  this  series  of  calamities 
— to  tell  of  the  coroner's  jury,  which  found  that  Mr.  Rug- 
gles  died  by  his  own  hand,  while  temporarily  insane  ;  of 
the  arrest  of  the  young  conspirators  on  a  charge  of  incen 
diarism,  and  their  discharge,  for  lack  of  sufficient  evidence 
to  hold  them;  of  the  funeral,  which  called  together  a 
crowd  from  twenty  miles  around — a  funeral  with  but 
one  mourner,  and  she  not  comfortless ;  of  the  scatter 
ing  of  the  operatives  in  all  directions  in  search  of  work ; 
of  a  generous  subscription  gathered  in  all  the  region  to 
aid  those  poor  people  who  had  lost  their  all ;  of  a  brace 
of  sermons  at  the  Crampton  church,  suggested  by  the 
events  that  have  been  described. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  301 

A  few  weeks  passed  away,  and  the  cloud  was  lifted. 
People  ceased  to  think  about  the  great  event  of  the  re 
gion  and  the  time.  The  stream  flowed  by  unused. 
The  tall  chimney  stood  like  a  monument  over  dead 
hopes  ;  over  scattered  life  ;  over  ruined  property ;  over 
vanished  industry.  The  widow  sat  in  her  weeds  in  her 
little  cottage  on  the  hill,  and  dreamed  of  the  past  and 
the  future.  It  would  be  an  outrage  upon  human  nature 
to  say  that  she  did  not  care  for  what  had  befallen  her ; 
yet  she  felt  that  life  had  something  for  her  yet. 

Long  years  before,  she  had  ceased  to  love  her  hus 
band,  and  long  had  she  felt  the  galling  slavery  of  his 
presence  as  a  curse  upon  her.  For  her  daughter  she 
mourned.  She  wanted  her  society.  She  could  forgive 
every  thing,  if  the  faithless  girl  would  return.  That  she 
dreamed  of  the  future,  Dr.  Gilbert  ascertained  early. 
She  had  never  in  her  life  called  for  so  much  medical  at 
tendance  as  in  the  first  month  after  the  death  of  her  hus 
band  ;  and  Dr.  Gilbert  always  received  a  message  from 
her  with  a  wry  face,  and  staid  in  her  house  but  a 
short  time.  Exactly  what  she  used  to  say  to  him  will 
never  be  known ;  but  he,  by  some  means,  ascertained 
that  whatever  might  be  the  fate  of  the  estate,  she  held, 
in  her  own  right,  an  amount  of  bank-stock  that  would 
make  her  very  comfortable  under  any  circumstances. 

Arthur,  of  all  the  operatives,  was  alone  left  with 
work  to  do.  Of  all  of  them,  he  only  had  a  knowledge 
of  the  proprietor's  business,  and,  under  legal  supervi 
sion,  it  was  his  task  to  settle  the  estate.  There  were 
multitudinous  accounts  to  be  adjusted,  and  in  the  settle 
ment  of  these  complicated  affairs  there  stretched  before 
him  a  whole  year  of  remunerative  labor. 


302 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

PHILOSOPHICAL,    BUT   IMPORTANT   TO   THE   STORY,    AND   THERE 
FORE  TO  BE  READ. 

To  the  long  winter  which  followed  these  startling 
and  closely  crowded  disasters,  Arthur,  in  after  years, 
always  looked  back  as  the  most  delightful  and  fruitful 
of  his  early  life.  He  was  called  upon  to  contrive  for 
those  who  could  not  contrive  for  themselves — to  find 
work  for  those  who,  tied  to  the  Run  by  dependent  fam 
ilies,  could  not  go  away  freely  to  seek  their  fortunes 
elsewhere.  He  won  to  himself  the  gratitude  and  the 
prayers  of  the  helpless.  Joslyn  and  Cheek  were  pro 
vided  for  in  Crampton,  the  latter  obtaining  the  much- 
coveted  situation  of  driver  of  the  Crampton  coach. 
Others  were  furnished  with  situations  in  distant  villages. 

Bound  no  longer  to  the  vicinity  of  the  mill,  he  again 
took  up  his  lodgings  at  home.  There,  in  the  daily  pres 
ence  of  her  to  whom  he  had  once  given  his  idolatrous 
love,  he  learned  how  stronger  than  the  strongest  will  is 
the  power  of  submission.  It  was  by  almost  a  fiercely 
persistent  power  of  will  that  Dr.  Gilbert  overcame  his 
passion  for  Mary  Hammctt ;  and,  though  he  accom- 


AN    AMERICAN    STORY.  303 

plished  his  object,  he  never  met  her  without  feeling  that 
he  had  been  wounded  and  terribly  tried.  Arthur,  with 
no  conscious  exercise  of  will,  submitted — accepted  the 
decision  made  against  him — and  was  at  peace.  From 
her  high  position  in  his  imagination,  Mary  Hammett 
never  fell.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  advanced  to  a  still 
higher  plane,  where  his  dreams  of  possession  did  not 
venture  to  intrude.  He  was  her  disciple.  She  became 
to  him  an  inspirer  and  a  guide.  In  the  atmosphere  of 
her  noble  womanhood,  his  own  best  manhood  found 
nourishment  and  growth.  Never,  for  one  moment,  al 
lowing  his  old  passion  for  her  to  rise,  his  reserve  in  her 
presence  all  wore  away,  and  she,  instinctively  appre 
hending  the  condition  of  his  mind,  became  to  him  the 
elder  sister  that  he  needed 

She  led  him  out  into  new  fields  of  thought.  They 
read  books  together,  and  talked  about  them.  Gradu 
ally  he  felt  himself  advancing  into  a  larger  realm  of  life. 
His  powers,  under  so  genial  a  sun,  developed  them 
selves  grandly,  often  surprising,  by  their  scope  and  style 
of  demonstration,  the  fair  minister  who,  with  earnest 
purpose,  was  striving  to  feed  the  fountain  whence  they 
sprang.  It  was  her  constant  aim  to  bring  his  mind  into 
contact  with  the  minds  of  others,  that  new  avenues 
might  be  established  through  which  nutriment  might 
reach  him,  and  that  he  might  gain  not  only  a  juster  esti 
mate  of  his  own  powers,  but  of  his  own  deficiencies. 

Under  this  happy  nurture,  his  old  thoughts  of  doing 
something  in  the  world,  and  something  for  the  world, 
began  to  revive.  He  felt  stirring  within  him  prophecies 
of  a  future  not  altogether  like  the  past.  He  felt  his 
nature  spreading  into  broader  sympathies  with  human- 


304:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

ity,  and  was  conscious  of  enlarging  power  to  follow  in  the 
track  of  those  sympathies  with  a  hearty  ministry  of  good. 

The  earth  sees  no  spectacle  more  beautiful  than  that 
of  a  completed  womanhood,  looking,  by  its  delicate  in 
sight,  into  the  depths  of  a  half-developed  manhood,  and 
striving  to  stimulate,  and  nourish,  and  harmonize 
powers,  that  it  knows  and  feels  will  some  time  rise 
above  itself,  and  become,  in  return,  its  source  of  inspira 
tion.  Mary  Hammett  had  a  thorough  comprehension 
of  the  material  she  had  in  hand.  She  saw  its  high  pos 
sibilities — saw  and  knew  that  they  were  beyond  her 
own.  She  thoroughly  apprehended  the  nature  and  the 
limits  of  her  mission.  She  felt  that  her  work  would  be 
short,  but  believed  that  it  would  be  fruitful. 

There  was  one  subject  discussed  by  this  amiable 
pair,  that  always  touched  Arthur  profoundly.  It  was 
one  proposed  in  a  passage  of  the  letter  of  the  young 
woman  to  him,  already  in  the  reader's  possession. 
Those  words — "  If  I  have  had  this  influence  upon  you, 
through  your  love  for  me,  what  shall  be  the  influence  of 
Him  who  has  room  in  His  heart  for  all  the  hearts  that 
have  ever  throbbed,  or  ever  shall  throb  in  the  world  !  " 
— came  often  to  Arthur  in  his  hours  of  leisure,  as  if 
some  angel  had  recorded  them  upon  a  scroll,  and  waited 
always  to  read  them  to  him  when  he  could  hear.  It 
was  a  subject  which,  in  their  conversations,  was  never 
thrust  upon  the  young  man  by  his  Christian-hearted 
mentor ;  but  it  was  one  which  so  interfused  her  whole 
life,  that  all  her  thought  was  colored  by  it. 

It  was  through  these  conversations  that  Arthur 
caught  his  first  glimpses  of  the  beauty  and  the 
loveliness  of  a  divine  life — a  life  parallel  to,  and,  in 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  305 

its  measure,  identical  with,  the  life  of  God — a  life 
above  the  plane  of  selfishness,  radiant  from  a  heart 
indued  and  informed  with  love  for  God  and  man.  Tow 
ard  this  life  his  discipline  had  led  him.  He  had 
schooled  his  powers  and  passions  to  self-control.  He 
had  subordinated  his  own  life  to  the  life  of  others,  by 
motives  of  natural  affection  and  manly  duty.  He  had 
submitted  to  a  decision  that  placed  forever  beyond  his 
possession  the  object  of  his  fondest  worship.  All  this 
had  led  him  heavenward ;  it  was  for  his  companion  to 
point  him  to  the  door.  It  was  for  her  to  speak  to  him 
of  the  duty  of  consecration,  and  of  the  charm  of  that  life 
whose  gracious  issues  are  beneficence,  and  healing,  and 
everlasting  happiness. 

Let  the  veil  be  dropped  upon  those  experiences  of  a 
great,  strong  heart,  adjusting  itself,  through  prayerful 
scrutiny  and  careful  thought,  to  a  scheme  of  life  above 
itself — a  scheme  brought  down  from  heaven  by  Jesus 
Christ !  Let  no  intrusion  be  made  upon  the  calm  joy 
of  a  soul  when  first  it  determines  to  give  its  life  forever 
to  God  and  men,  to  law  and  love,  and  feels  itself  in  har 
mony  with  the  spirit  and  economy  of  the  universe,  and 
knows  that  its  life  can  only  tend,  in  this  world  and  in 
coming  worlds,  to  blessed  consummations  ! 

Miss  Fanny  Gilbert  was,  of  course,  frequently  a 
member  of  the  social  circle  in  Mrs.  Blague's  quiet  dwell 
ing  ;  and  though  Arthur  had  been  throughout  most  of  her 
girl's  life  her  beau-ideal  of  young  manhood,  she  never 
lost  occasion,  when  alone  with  Mary  Hammett,  very  good 
naturedly,  though  very  perversely,  to  quarrel  about  him. 
She  professed  herself  unable  to  understand  how  a  young 
man  who  was  truly  manly  could  fail  to  be  ambitious,  and 


306  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAJJEEK: 

how,  being  ambitious,  he  could  patiently  subject  him 
self  and  subordinate  his  life  to  those  who  were  beneath 
him.  If  she  were  a  man,  she  was  sure  that  she  should 
die,  if  obliged  to  do  what  Arthur  Blague  had  done,  and 
was  still  doing.  If  she  were  a  young  man  like  him,  she 
would  not  remain  in  Crampton  a  day.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  Arthur  was  very  much  more  like  a  woman  than 
a  man. 

Miss  Hammett's  line  of  defence  was,  that  Arthur 
was  acquiring  his  education,  under  a  master  whose  name 
was  Necessity  ;  that  like  all  decent  young  men,  he  was 
tractable  and  patient  under  authority  ;  that  out  of  hon 
orable  subjection  and  self-control  springs  always  the 
highest  power  to  subject  and  control  others,  and  that  he 
had  not  got  his  growth.  It  was  her  theory,  that  a  soul 
in  its  development  needed  time  as  much  as  nutriment — 
that  its  growth  could  never  be  hurried  to  its  advan 
tage.  Trees  live  alike  upon  the  earth  and  upon  the  at 
mosphere,  and  cannot  be  too  much  forced  at  the  root, 
without  destroying  the  proper  relations  between  those 
visible  and  invisible  influences  which  contribute  to  feed 
it.  There  is  an  atmosphere  around  each  soul,  as  there 
is  around  each  tree,  and  this  God  takes  care  of  as  he 
does  the  air,  and  only  in  a  measured  time  can  the  soul 
gather  from  it  what  it  contains  of  nourishment.  The 
soul,  therefore,  must  have  time  for  growth,  or  grow  un 
soundly.  The  soul's  sympathies  are  the  soul's  foliage, 
and  only  when  the  just  relations  exist  between  sympa 
thetic  absorption  and  the  direct  imbibition  of  the  nutri 
ent  juices,  does  the  soul  grow  strongly  and  healthily. 
The  prime  condition  of  such  a  growth  as  this  is  time. 
Storms  must  wrestle  with  it.  Winds  must  breathe 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  307 

through  it.  Rains  must  descend  upon  it,  year  after 
year.  In  darkness  and  in  light  it  must  stand  and  ab 
sorb,  even  though  it  be  unconsciously,  those  elements 
that  minister  to  its  forces  and  its  fibre.  A  soul  thus 
growing  will  become  larger  and  more  beautiful  than 
when  forced  at  the  root,  beyond  the  power  of  absorption 
in  the  leaves. 

Fanny  admitted  the  ingenuity  of  the  reasoning,  and 
believed  in  its  soundness  more  thoroughly  than  she  was 
willing  to  confess ;  but  it  was  directly  opposite  to  the 
theory  of  education  she  had  received  from  her  father. 
With  him,  education  consisted  in  the  acquisition  from 
books,  of  the  accepted  facts  of  science  and  philosophy. 
The  quicker  this  could  be  done,  the  better.  That  student 
who  should  the  most  readily  and  the  most  expeditiously 
acquire  the  knowledge  contained  in  a  given  number  and 
variety  of  books  was,  in  his  estimate,  the  best  scholar ; 
and  he  only  could  be  an  educated  man  who  should  se 
cure  the  particular  knowledge  prescribed  by  the  schools. 
It  was  in  this  way  that  his  daughter  Fanny  had  been 
educated.  With  a  mind  that  acquired  with  wonderful 
facility,  she  had  distanced  all  her  associates,  and  ex 
hausted  the  resources  of  her  schools  before  she  had  ar 
rived  at  full  womanhood.  The  idea  that  sound  growth 
required  time,  had  never  occurred  to  him  at  all ;  and  he 
had  determined  upon  putting  his  little  boy  through  the 
same  course  that  his  daughter  had  pursued.  He  was  to 
be  urged,  fired,  and  fretted  with  ambition,  taught  to 
labor  for  the  prizes  and  honors  of  scholarship,  and 
brought  into  life  as  soon  as  possible. 

Notwithstanding  this  clash  of  theories,  and  Miss 
Gilbert's  respect  for  that  of  her  father,  there  was  some- 


308 

thing  in  that  of  the  schoolmistress  which  gave  her  seri 
ous  thought.  It  somehow  united  itself  with  the  words 
of  the  reviewer  which  had  so  deeply  impressed  her. 
She  felt  more  than  ever  that  she  needed  more  life — that 
she  needed  time — that  there  was  something  which  time 
would  give  her  that  she  could  obtain  by  no  means 
within  her  province  and  power  to  institute.  She  did 
not  understand  how  she  could  grow  without  direct  feed 
ing  ;  but  she  saw  before  her  a  woman,  evidently  her 
superior  through  the  ministry  of  time.  She  did  not 
recognize  in  Mary  Hammett  powers  and  acquisitions 
that  outreached  her  own,  but  she  apprehended  a  har 
mony,  maturity,  and  poise,  to  which  she  could  lay  no 
claim.  So,  as  she  said  when  she  finished  reading  the 
review  of  Tristram  Trevanion,  "  Hurrah  for  life  !  "  she 
concluded  her  reflections  upon  Mary  Hammett's  theo 
ries  by  the  exclamation,  "  More  time,  then  !  " 

There  wTas  one  influence  in  Arthur's  quiet  home-life 
that  his  expanding  nature  drank  as  a  flower  drinks  the 
dew.  Little  Jamie,  his  brother,  a  bright  and  beautiful 
little  boy,  was  a  constant  source  of  delight  to  the  young 
man.  When  the  little  fellow  had  reached  his  second 
birth-day,  there  was  not  a  more  precious  and  charming 
specimen  of  childhood  in  Crampton.  Arthur  carried 
him  out  in  his  limited  walks,  took  care  of  him  at  night, 
and  with  even  more  than  motherly  patience  bore  with 
his  petulance  when  ill,  and  his  natural  restlessness  when 
well.  The  attachment  between  those  two  brothers,  so 
widely  divided  by  years,  was  the  theme  of  general  re 
mark.  Miss  Hammett  saw  it  with  delight,  and  Miss 
Gilbert  looked  on  with  astonishment,  admitting  that  it 
was  all  very  beautiful,  but  very  unaccountable.  It 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  309 

seemed  more  womanly  than  any  thing  she  had  seen  in 
Arthur,  and  she  saw  few  things  that  did  not  bear  that 
complexion. 

To  Arthur,  the  opening  of  that  little  soul  upon  the 
realities  of  existence,  the  unfolding  of  its  budding  affec 
tions,  the  fresh  simplicity  of  a  nature  newly  from  the 
Creating  Hand,  the  perfect  faith  and  trust  of  a  heart  that 
had  never  been  deceived,  the  artless  prattle  of  lips  that 
knew  no  guile,  the  wonderful  questions  born  of  childish 
wonder,  were  like  angels'  food.  Out  of  that  little  cup 
of  life  he  drank  daily  nectar.  He  never  tired  of  its 
flavor — never  thrust  it  rudely  away  from  him.  The 
child  almost  forsook  its  mother  in  its  love  for  the  strong 
arms  and  great  heart  of  its  brother.  In  this. sweet  af 
fection  and  wonderful  intimacy,  there  was  a  prophecy 
of  the  future  which  Arthur  could  not  read.  Could  he 
have  done  it,  he  would  have  sunk  on  the  threshold  of 
life,  and  prayed  to  die.  Ah !  blessed  darkness,  that 
rests  upon  each  step  that  lies  before  us  in  the  future ! 
Ah  !  blessed  faith,  that  frankly  gives  its  hand  to  Provi 
dence,  and  walks  undoubting  on  ! 

It  was  impossible  for  Miss  Hammett  to  mingle  so 
freely  in  the  society  of  Arthur  and  Fanny,  without 
thinking  of  them  sometimes  in  the  relation  of  lovers. 
She  knew  both  sufficiently  well  to  see  that  they  did  not 
understand  each  other.  She  knew  that  Fanny  was  far 
more  accomplished  than  Arthur;  yet-  she  knew  that 
Arthur  had  powers  under  whose  shadow  even  Fanny 
would  at  some  future  day  delight  to  sit.  When  Mary 
talked  with  Arthur  about  his  ambitious  friend,  he  al 
ways  had  quite  as  many  objections  to  her  as  she  was  in 
the  habit  of  expressing  in  regard  to  him.  He  could  not 


310  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

love  a  woman  who  wanted  the  praise  of  the  world. 
Such  a  woman  could  only  be  fit  for  the  world's  wife. 
He  pitied  any  man  who  would  consent  to  be  known  to 
the  world  as  the  husband  of  an  ambitious  and  bepraised 
notability.  Mother  Hubbard's  dog  was  a  very  insig 
nificant  individual.  Besides,  he  disliked  a  "  blue,"  and 
not  only  disliked  her,  but  was  afraid  of  her. 

Mary  Hammett  tried  to  argue  Arthur  out  of  notions 
like  these,  not  because  she  was  anxious  to  contrive  a 
match  between  her  friends,  but  because  she  felt  that  Ar 
thur  was  doing  Fanny  injustice  ;  but  she  could  make  no 
impression  on  him.  He  declined  to  reason  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  declared  he  had  no  prejudices  upon  it.  He 
could  only  say  that  he  felt  as  he  did  because  he  could 
not  help  it.  There  was  something  in  her  position  and 
in  her  aims  that  offended  him.  He  thought  her  a 
woman  of  genius,  admired  her  powers,  delighted  in  the 
vivacity  of  her  conversation,  and  felt  himself  stimulated 
by  her  presence ;  but  the  idea  of  loving  and  wedding 
her  was  repulsive  to  him. 

Throughout  this  season  of  active  and  productive 
social  life,  Mary  Hammett  was  haunted  by  a  single  fear 
— a  fear  that  obtruded  itself  upon  all  her  hours  of  re 
tirement,  and  often  came  upon  her  with  a  pang  when  in 
the  presence  of  her  friends.  She  knew  that  the  villain 
who  had  defrauded  her  of  her  earnings,  and  who  had 
wound  up  his  career  in  Crampton  by  the  wholesale  rob 
bery  of  his  employer  and  the  seduction  of  his  daughter, 
would  exhaust  his  money.  She  knew,  too,  that  even  the 
large  sum  he  had  on  hand  would  furnish  him  with  food 
for  his  vices  but  a  short  time.  She  felt  certain  that  his 
first  resort  would  be  the  price  of  her  betrayal.  She  had 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  311 

no  doubt  that  her  father  would  give  him  any  reasonable 
sum  he  might  claim  for  discovering  to  him  her  retreat. 
She  felt,  therefore,  that  her  stay  in  Crampton  was  lim 
ited,  and  that  any  week  might  bring  events  that  would 
cut  her  off  forever  from  the  companionships  that  had 
become  so  pleasant  and  precious  to  her. 

She  had  fully  contrived  her  plan  of  operations  in  the 
event  which  she  so  much  feared,  and  when,  at  last,  it 
came,  she  carried  it  into  execution  with  better  success 
than  she  had  dared  to  expect. 

•Jrzg  off:  no  '.  roifftVih  &W  •     .rmrf  m 


312 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

.'"'   jJ.HT  V1f>m      ..&!•}    r  *v..5   f>£5*  0o 

MARY  HAMMETT'S  FATHER  HAS  A  VERY  EXCITING  TIME  IN 
CEAMPTON. 

IT  was  a  pleasant  Saturday  night  in  August,  when, 
as  Mary  Hammett  sat  at  her  window,  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  Crampton  coach  as  it  drove  into  the  vil 
lage,  raising  its  usual  cloud  of  dust,  and  bearing  its 
usual  covering  of  the  same  material.  On  its  back  seat 
sat  an  elderly  gentleman  with  his  head  down,  and  an 
altogether  superfluous  amount  of  material  around  his 
face.  Mary  could  see  but  little,  and  saw  that  only  for 
a  moment,  but  she  was  convinced  that  her  day  of  trial 
had  come.  She  could  not  be  mistaken  in  the  stout 
shoulders,  the  short  neck,  and  the  heavy  eyebrows. 
She  passed  out  of  her  room  to  get  a  better  view  of  the 
passenger  while  he  alighted  at  the  hotel,  and,  though  it 
was  almost  twilight,  and  the  house  at  a  considerable 
distance  across  the  common,  she  was  certain  that  her 
first  impressions  were  correct. 

She  immediately  returned  to  her  room,  and  wrote  a 
note  to  Dr.  Gilbert,  Aunt  Catharine,  and  Fanny,  and 
despatched  it  by  the  hand  of  Arthur,  requesting  those 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  313 

friends  to  call  upon  her  so  soon  as  it  should  be  dark. 
They  came  accordingly,  wondering  much  at  the  singu 
lar  form  of  the  invitation,  and  curious  to  ascertain  what 
it  could  mean.  Mary  met  them  in  the  parlor,  and  call 
ing  in  Arthur  Blague  and  his  mother,  closed  the  door, 
and  sat  down  before  them,  pale,  faint,  and  trembling. 
There  was  an  expression  of  painful  embarrassment  upon 
her  face,  and  Fanny,  anxious  to  do  something  to  relieve 
her,  rose,  and  crossing  the  room,  took  a  seat  beside  her 
on  the  sofa,  and  handed  her  a  fan.  Mary  put  the  fan 
aside  with  a  quiet  "  Thank  you,"  and  said  :  "  My  friends, 
I  am  sure  that  trouble  lies  just  before  me,  and  *I  want 
your  advice." 

"  Certainly,"  responded  Dr.  Gilbert  promptly. 
"  I'm  sure  we  are  all  at  your  service." 

"  You  have  all  been  very  kind  to  me,"  continued 
Mary,  "  for  you  have  trusted  me  without  knowing  me, 
and  received  me  as  a  friend  without  inquiring  into  my 
history.  I  wish  to  thank  you  for  this,  and  to  assure  you 
that,  whatever  may  be  the  events  of  the  next  few  days, 
I  shall  remember  you  with  gratitude  as  long  as  I  live." 

There  was  a  pause.  Dr.  Gilbert,  exceedingly  puz 
zled,  sat  and  drummed  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair.  It 
was  all  a  mystery  to  him — her  solemnity,  her  appre 
hension,  and  her  allusion  to  imminent  events  of  an  un 
pleasant  character.  "  Miss  Hammett,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  what  do  you  mean  ?  Who  menaces  you  ?  Are  you 
going  to  leave  us  ?  " 

"  I  may  be  obliged  to  leave  you  for  a  time,  at  least," 
replied  Mary,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  Who  or  what  can  drive  you  from  Crampton  ?  " 
said  Dr.  Gilbert,  bringing  his  hand  excitedly  down  upon 
14 


314: 

the  arm  of  his  chair.  "  Let  them  deal  with  me.  Un 
less  there  is  some  one  who  has  a  legal  right  to  control 
you,  I  will  stand  between  you  and  all  harm." 

"  Dr.  Gilbert,"  said  Mary,  trembling,  "  my  father  is 
in  Crampton." 

"  Your  father !  "  exclaimed  all  her  auditors  in  con 
cert. 

"  My  father  is  in  Crampton,  and  he  is  very,  very 
angry  with  me." 

"  What  is  he  angry  with  you  for  ?  "  inquired  Dr. 
Gilbert,  that  being  the  first  question  that  rose  to  his 
lips. 

"  Because,"  said  Mary  with  strong  feeling,  "  because 
I  will  not  perjure  myself." 

"  Let  him  lay  his  hand  on  you  at  his  peril,"  said  the 
doctor  fiercely,  again  bringing  his  hand  down  upon  the 
arm  of  his  chair  with  a  will. 

"  No,  doctor,  no ;  there  must  be  no  violence.  I 
must  get  out  of  his  way." 

"  Because  you  will  not  perjure  yourself!  "  exclaimed 
the  doctor,  coming  back  to  the  cause  of  the  difference 
between  the  young  woman  and  her  father.  '?  I'm  sure 
some  explanation  should  go  with  that.  I  don't  under 
stand  it." 

"  Dr.  Gilbert,"  said  Mary,  "  my  father  insisted  upon 
my  breaking  the  most  sacred  pledge  of  my  life,  and 
breaking  two  hearts  with  it ;  and  on  my  refusal  to  do 
it,  he  bade  me  never  enter  his  presence  again.  That  is 
the  reason  I  am  here  in  Crampton  to-night.  That  is  the 
reason  you  found  me  in  the  mill  at  Hucklebury  Run. 
I  took  his  alternative,  glad  in  my  choice  ;  and  he  is  here 
to  force  me,  if  possible,  back  to  my  home." 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  315 

"  You  don't  know  that,"  said  the  doctor,  thought 
fully. 

"  You  don't  know  my  father,"  said  Mary. 

"  But  how  did  he  learn  that  you  were  in  Crampton  1 
That's  what  puzzles  me,"  said  the  doctor. 

Then  Mary  told  him  of  Dan  Buck,  and  all  the  persecu 
tions  of  which  she  had  been  the  subject  at  his  hands,  and 
of  her  conviction,  from  the  first,  that  this  would  be  the 
result.  Dan  Buck  had  been  a  salesman  in  her  father's 
store,  had  seen  and  known  her  then,  had  been  discharged 
for  his  dissolute  habits,  and  had  now  sold  the  secret  of 
her  hiding-place  for  money. 

"  Miss  Hammett,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  to  his  feet> 
"  I  propose  to  manage  this  matter  myself.  You  are  not 
going  to  leave  Crampton  at  all.  If  Dan  Buck  has  told 
your  father  that  you  are  in  this  town,  he  has  told  him 
what  house  you  are  in.  Now  just  pack  your  trunks, 
and  Arthur  and  I  will  take  them  over  to  my  house. 
Aunt  Catharine  and  Fanny  will  look  after  you ;  and  if 
he  gets  an  interview  with  you,  he  will  get  it  because  he 
is  a  stronger  man  than  I  am." 

The  doctor  looked  as  if  he  thought  that  entirely  set 
tled  the  matter  of  her  safety  from  all  intrusion. 

Aunt  Catharine  and  Fanny  very  earnestly  seconded 
this  project  of  Dr.  Gilbert.  Aunt  Catharine  even  went 
so  far  as  to  declare  her  intention  to  give  the  gentleman 
a  piece  of  her  mind  if  he  should  ever  darken  the  door  of 
the  Gilbert  mansion,  at  which  the  owner  of  that  man 
sion  smiled,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Fanny  was 
delighted.  This  was  life.  She  would  lay  away  in 
memory  every  incident  of  this  affair,  and  some  time  it 
should  be  woven  into  a  romance.  Mrs.  Blague  and  Ar- 


316 

thur  objected,  but  the  majority  were  against  them  ;  and 
when  Sunday  morning  came,  it  found  Mary  Hammett 
the  occupant  of  a  room  in  Dr.  Gilbert's  dwelling,  which 
overlooked  the  common,  and  the  hotel  on  the  opposite 
side  of  it. 

Through  the  half-closed  blind,  Mary  Hammett  was 
an  earnest  watcher  of  every  movement  at  the  hotel. 
For  half  of  the  day  her  father  sat  at  his  window,  look 
ing  at  the  people  as  they  walked  or  drove  past  on  their 
way  to  and  from  church.  He  had  his  reasons  for  not 
showing  himself  in  the  street,  and  so  had  his  daughter. 
The  day  wore  away,  and  night  descended  again.  In  the 
evening,  Mary  for  the  first  time  revealed  the  story  of 
her  life  to  her  companion,  Fanny  Gilbert,  all  of  which 
Fanny  carefully  remembered,  that  she  might  have  abun 
dant  materials  for  her  future  romance.  The  doctor  and 
Aunt  Catharine  dropped  into  her  room  in  the  course  of 
the  evening  to  talk  over  affairs,  and  contrive  for  the 
emergencies  that  would  develop  themselves,  without 
doubt,  on  the  following  day. 

It  was  Mary's  opinion,  that  her  father,  having 
learned  her  business  and  the  habits  of  her  charge, 
would  keep  himself  out  of  her  sight  and  knowledge,  so 
far  as  possible,  until  she  was  within  her  school-room  and 
alone  with  her  little  flock.  This  would  give  him  his 
best  opportunity  to  meet  her  without  the  intrusion  of 
Dr.  Gilbert,  of  whose  strength  of  will  and  whose  local 
power  and  influence,  she  had  no  doubt,  he  had  been 
abundantly  informed  by  Dan  Buck.  So  it  was  deter 
mined  that  Mary  should  remain  a  prisoner  in  her  cham 
ber,  and  that  Fanny  should  go  over,  and  perform  her 
duties  as  teacher. 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  317 

This  arrangement  Fanny  agreed  to  gladly.  It  would 
give  her  an  opportunity  to  meet  the  old  gentleman 
alone,  and  possibly  furnish  her  with  further  materials 
for  the  great  romance. 

On  Monday  morning,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  ex 
citement  in  the  family  circle  that  gathered  around  the 
breakfast  table  in  Dr.  Gilbert's  dwelling.  All  were 
possessed  with  the  feeling  that  exciting  and  not  alto, 
gether  pleasant  events  were  before  them.  Mary  Ham- 
mett  could  eat  nothing;  and  even  Dr.  Gilbert  made 
very  severe  work  of  pretending  to  an  appetite.  It  was 
deemed  a  matter  of  prudence  to  keep  little  Fred  at 
home  as  company  for  his  teacher.  She  would  hear  his 
lessons,  and  the  plan  delighted  him.  Fanny  feared  that 
she  could  not  control  his  tongue,  if  the  visitor  whom 
she  expected  should  ask  any  questions  about  the  absent 
schoolmistress. 

At  nine  o'clock,  Fanny  left  the  house,  dressed  to 
disguise  her  form  and  cover  her  face  as  much  as  possi 
ble  ;  and  soon  the  wondering  children  responded  to  the 
little  school-bell,  and  vanished  from  the  street  to  meet 
their  new  mistress.  Fanny  explained  to  them  that  it 
was  not  convenient  for  Miss  Hammett  to  be  with  them, 
and  that  she  should  act  as  their  teacher  until  their  mis 
tress  should  be  ready  to  resume  her  duties.  Her  exer 
cises  had  not  proceeded  half  an  hour,  when  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  figure  passing  the  window.  Her  heart 
leaped  to  her  mouth,  and  she  turned  instinctively  toward 
the  door,  expecting  at  the  next  moment  to  hear  a  rap. 
Instead  of  this  polite  summons,  the  door  was  flung  wide 
open,  and  an  elderly  gentleman,  red  in  the  face — red  to 
the  very  summit  of  his  bald  crown — stood  before  her. 


318 

The  first  expression  which  Fanny  caught  upon  his  face 
was  one  of  fierce  exultation.  This  passed  off,  or  passed 
into  a  look  of  vexation — a  puzzled  stare — that  showed 
he  was  quite  disappointed,  and  somewhat  abashed. 
Fanny  uttered  not  a  word,  but  stood  regarding  him  with 
well-feigned  indignation  and  wonder. 

As  soon  as  the  intruder  could  recover  from  his  sur 
prise,  he  said  :  "  Excuse  me  for  coming  in  without  warn 
ing.  I — I — expected  to  see  some  one  else.  This  is  not 
Miss  Hammett.  Is  she  in  1 " 

"  She  is  not,  sir,"  replied  Fanny,  with  excessive 
frigidity. 

"  Are  you  the  mistress  of  this  school  ?  " 

"  I  am,  sir." 

"  Is  Miss  Hammett  your  assistant  1 " 

"  She  is  not,  sir." 

The  man  looked  still  more  puzzled.  "  There  must 
be  some  mistake,"  said  he.  "  How  long  have  you  been 
in  this  school  1 " 

"  Twenty  minutes." 

"  I  do  not  refer  to  this  morning,  particularly.  How 
long  have  you  been  mistress  of  the  school  1 " 

"  Twenty  minutes." 

A  mingled  expression  of  anger  and  alarm  came  upon 
the  old  man's  face,  as  he  walked  rapidly  and  excitedly 
forward,  shaking  his  cane  in  Fanny's  face,  and  saying : 
"  Young  woman,  you  must  not  deceive  me.  You  must 
tell  me  the  truth.  I  am  in  no  mood  to  be  trifled  with. 
Is  the  woman  you  call  Mary  Hammett  in  this  house  1 " 

Fanny  did  not  stir — did  not  wink — but,  looking  im 
periously  in  his  face,  said :  "  Will  you  put  down  your 
cane,  sir  ?  " 


AN   AMERICAN   8TOKY.  319 

"  There,  damn  it !  my  cane  is  down,"  exclaimed  the 
choleric  gentleman,  bringing  it  sharply  to  the  floor. 
"  Now  answer  my  question." 

"  John,"  said  Fanny  to  one  of  the  boys,  "  will  you 
run  over,  and  tell  Dr.  Gilbert  that  there  is  a  strange 
gentleman  in  the  school-room,  who  came  in  without 
knocking,  and  is  using  profane  language  before  the  chil 
dren  1  " 

"  John,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  cane  in  his 
face,  "  you  stir  an  inch,  and  I  knock  your  head  off."  At 
this  the  little  fellow  began  to  cry,  and  when  he  began 
his  little  sister  began,  and  one  by  one  the  scared  chil 
dren  fell  into  line,  and  set  up  a  very  dismal  howl  in 
deed. 

"  Will  you  retire,  sir  ?  "  inquired  Fanny,  coolly. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  whether  Mary  Hammett  is  in 
this  building  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you,  sir." 

The  old  man  looked  up  and  around,  apparently 
taking  the  gauge  of  the  structure,  to  see  if  there  could 
be  any  hiding-place.  He  advanced  to  the  door  of  a 
little  recitation-room,  opened  it,  and  looked  in.  Then 
he  looked  into  a  wood-closet,  at  which  some  of  the  chil 
dren,  reassured  by  the  calmness  of  their  new  mistress, 
began  to  titter.  Then  he  came  back  to  Fanny,  who  had 
not  stirred,  and  said  in  an  altered  tone :  "  Will  you  tell 
me  where  Miss  Hammett  is  ?  " 

"  I  will  not,  sir." 

The  man  wheeled  upon  his  heel  without  making  any 
reply,  and  walked  out  of  the  house.  Fanny  was  de 
lighted  with  the  interview.  She  had  thought  of  such 
scenes  a  great  many  times — of  "  drawing  her  queenly 


320  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

form  up  to  its  full  height,"  and  saying  extremely  cool 
and  imperious  things — of  "  withering  "  some  impertinent 
man  by  her  "  quiet  and  determined  eye."  She  had  tried 
the  experiment  and  succeeded.  She  would  like  to  try 
it  again. 

Fanny  had  not  much  heart  for  the  school  exercises 
after  this.  She  was  in  the  heroic  mood,  and  did  not 
perceive  how  her  duties  could  help  on  her  projects. 
She  watched  the  stout  gentleman  as  he  walked  off, 
swinging  his  cane,  and  making  long  reaches  with  it,  as 
if  there  were  some  power  in  the  motion  to  lengthen  out 
his  legs.  She  saw  that  he  made  directly  for  the  house 
of  Mrs.  Blague,  and  thither  we  will  follow  him. 

Arriving  at  the  door,  he  hesitated,  as  if  to 'determine 
what  should  be  his  mode  of  entrance.  Then  he  tried 
the  knob,  and  finding  the  door  locked,  gave  the  knocker 
a  strong  treble  blow.  The  door  was  not  opened  im 
mediately,  because  Arthur  had  not  completed  his  in 
structions  to  his  mother.  After  she  and  Jamie  had 
removed  themselves  to  a  distant  room,  Arthur  started 
to  answer  the  summons,  just  as  the  caller,  in  his  impa 
tience,  had  repeated  it.  Arthur  opened  the  door,  and 
stood  coolly  fronting  the  irascible  gentleman,  who  was 
evidently  disturbed  by  meeting  a  man.  "  Will  you 
walk  in,  sir  1 "  said  Arthur,  who  had  waited  a  moment 
in  vain  for  the  man  to  make  known  his  errand. 

The  man  walked  in  and  entered  the  parlor,  but  did 
not  take  a  seat.  Arthur  stepped  up  to  him  with  a 
smile,  and  taking  his  hand,  inquired  :  "  To  whom  am  I 
indebted  for  the  honor  of  this  call  1 " 

"  My  name  is — no  matter  about  my  name,  sir.  I 
called  to  see  a  young  woman  who  boards  in  this  family. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  321 

Her  name  is — that  is,  the  name  by  which  you  know  her 
— is  Hammett — Mary  Hammett,  I  believe.  Will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  say  to  her  that  an  old  acquaintance 
would  like  an  interview  with  her?  Passing  through 
the  town — thought  I  would  call — known  her  from 
a  baby — very  pleasant  little  village,  this  Cramp- 
ton."  The  man  said  this,  walking  uneasily  back  and 
forth,  and  attempting  to  be  very  careless  and  composed. 

"  There  is  no  woman  of  the  name  in  this  house,  sir. 
You  allude  to  Miss  Hammett,  the  school  teacher,  I  pre 
sume." 

The  old  man  bit  his  lips;  but  having  assumed  a 
false  character,  he  still  affected  carelessness.  "  She 
formerly  boarded  here,  I  think — I  was  informed  so,  at 
least,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  she  formerly  boarded  here." 

"  And  you  say  she  does  not  board  here  now  1 " 

"  She  does  not  board  here  now." 

"  How  long  since  she  left  you  1 " 

"  Thirty-six  hours." 

"  Where  has  she  gone,  sir  ?  Where  shall  I  be  likely 
to  find  her  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir." 

The  bald  head  grew  very  red,  as  its  owner,  puzzled 
and  baffled,  walked  up  and  down  the  apartment.  Then, 
as  if  he  had  forgotten  the  presence  of  Arthur,  he  said  : 
"  Twenty  minutes  out  of  school — thirty-six  hours  out  of 
boarding-house — damned  conspiracy  !  "  Then  turning 
to  Arthur  suddenly,  he  said:  "Young  man,  do  you 
want  money  1 " 

"  Any  money  that  I  could  get  honestly,"  said  Ar 
thur,  with  a  smile,  "  would  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good." 
J4* 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

"  Look  you,  then ! "  said  the  man,  coming  up  to 
him  closely.  "Tell  me  where  I  can  see  this  Mary 
Hammett,  and  I'll  give  you  a  sum  that  will  make  your 
heart  jump.  You  see  I  wish  to  surprise  her." 

"  I  do  not  answer  questions  for  money,"  said  Arthur, 
"  and  as  I  have  no  talent  for  deception,  or  double-deal 
ing,  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  sir,  that  your  relations  to 
Mary  Hammett  are  known  to  her  friends  here,  and  that 
your  presence  in  Crampton  is  known  to  her.  She  has 
taken  such  measures  as  her  friends  have  thought  proper 
for  keeping  out  of  your  way,  and  you  will  probably  be 
obliged  to  leave  Crampton  without  seeing  her." 

All  this  was  said  very  calmly,  but  its  effect  upon 
the  old  man  was  to  excite  him  to  uncontrollable  anger. 
He  grasped  Arthur  by  the  collar,  and  exclaimed  :  "  By 

,  young  man,  you  don't  get  off  from  me  in  this 

way.  Tell  me  where  this  runaway  girl  is,  or  I'll  cane 
you."  Arthur  grasped  the  cane  with  one  hand  and 
wrenched  it  from  his  grasp,  and  with  the  other,  by  a 
violent  movement,  released  himself  from  the  hold  upon 
his  collar. 

"  There  is  your  cane,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  extending  it 
to  him.  "  You  see  I  am  not  to  be  frightened,  and  that 
violence  will  do  you  no  good." 

The  man  looked  at  him  fiercely  for  a  moment,  as  if 
he  would  like  to  kill  him  ;  but  he  saw  that  he  had  to 
deal  with  one  who  was  physically  more  than  a  match 
for  him.  Finally  he  said  :  "  Young  man,  I  have  a  right 
to  know  where  this  girl  is.  I  am  her  natural  protector, 
and  I  demand  that  you  tell  me  where  she  is." 

"  I  would  not  tell  you  for  all  the  money  you  are 
worth,"  replied  Arthur ;  "  and  you  may  be  sure  that 


AN  AMERICAN  STOKY.  323 

you  have  learned  every  thing  about  her  that  you  can 
learn  in  this  house." 

"  Very  well !  very  well !  "  said  the  man,  stamping 
his  cane  upon  the  floor  with  such  spite  as  to  show  that 
he  meant  any  thing  but  "  very  well."  "  I  am  here  for  a 
purpose ;  and  I  do  not  propose  to  leave  till  I  have  ac 
complished  it.  I'm  no  boy — I'm  no  boy,  sir ;  and  if 
you  are  one  of  this  girl's  friends,  you  will  do  her  a  ser 
vice  by  not  provoking  me  too  far.  I  may  be  obliged 
to  see  you,  or  you  may  be  obliged  to  see  me,  again. 
•Now  tell  me  where  this  committee-man  lives — this  Dr. 
Gilbert." 

Arthur  walked  to  the  window  with  some  hesitation, 
and  pointed  out  Dr.  Gilbert's  house  to  him.  "  We 
shall  see — we  shall  see !  "  said  he,  as  he  covered  his 
fiery  poll  with  his  hat,  and  walked  off  without  the 
courtesy  of  a  formal  "  good  morning." 

All  these  movements,  so  far  as  they  were  out  of 
doors,  had  been  carefully  observed  from  the  windows 
of  Dr.  Gilbert's  house.  Dr.  Gilbert  had  made  very 
early  professional  calls,  and  returned,  anticipating  an 
interview  with  the  angry  New  Yorker ;  and  he,  with 
Aunt  Catharine  and  Mary  Hammett,  had  seen  him 
enter  and  emerge  from  the  school-house,  and  then  call 
at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Blague,  and  retire.  When  Mary 
saw  him  turning  his  footsteps  resolutely  in  the  direction 
of  her  refuge,  she  grew  sick  at  heart,  and  almost 
fainted.  She  felt  the  relations  which  she  sustained 
toward  her  father  to  be  most  unnatural,  and  it  was 
quite  as  much  from  this  consideration  as  any  other  that 
she  was  so  sadly  distressed.  Nothing  but  a  sense  of 
outrage  could  ever  have  placed  her  in  antagonism  tow- 


324 

ard  one  to  whom  she  owed  the  duties  of  a  daughter. 
Nothing  but  what  she  deemed  to  be  the  forfeiture  of  his 
paternal  character,  could  have  induced  her  to  break 
away  from  him,  and  from  her  motherless  home.  From 
the  first  she  had  shielded  him.  She  had  never  told  her 
story  till  she  felt  compelled  to  do  it  for  her  own  safety 
and  protection ;  and,  had  she  been  differently  situated, 
her  father's  sin  against  her  would  never  have  been  men 
tioned  to  any  one  but  him  to  whom  she  had  pledged 
herself. 

The  doctor  saw  him  approach ;  and  as  he  came  near 
the  dwelling,  looking  up  and  around,  the  former  ex 
claimed  :  "  Good  Heaven  !  I've  seen  that  man  before." 

Down  the  stairs  Dr.  Gilbert  ran,  as  nimbly  as  his 
sturdy  physique  would  permit,  very  highly  excited  with 
his  discovery.  He  had  never  doubted  that  he  should 
see  a  gentleman  bearing  the  name  of  Hammett,  whenever 
Mary's  father  should  present  himself.  There  flashed 
upon  him  the  memory  of  a  scene  that  he  had  recalled  a 
thousand  times  ;  and  now  that  the  central  figure  of  that 
scene  was  at  his  door,  under  such  strange  circumstances, 
his  excitement  was  mingled  with  awe.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  hand  of  Providence  had  revealed  itself,  and  that,  by 
ways  all  unknown  and  undreamed  of,  he  was  to  be  made 
instrumental  in  effecting  its  designs. 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  the  doctor  answered  it, 
throwing  the  door  wide  open.  The  moment  the  visitor 
looked  in  Dr.  Gilbert's  face,  the  stern,  angry  expression 
which  he  bore,  changed  to  one  of  bewilderment  and 
wonder. 

"  This  is  Dr.  Gilbert,  I  believe,"  said  he,  extending 
his  hand  to  that  gentleman,  who,  in  a  brief  moment,  had 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  325 

determined  upon  changing  the  tactics  arranged  for  the 
occasion. 

"  Mr.  Kilgore,  how  do  you  do  ? "  said  the  doctor, 
heartily  shaking  his  hand.  "  What  could  have  brought 
you  to  Crampton,  sir  ?  I  had  not  the  remotest  thought 
that  you  would  remember  me.  Come  in,  sir ;  come  in. 
Why,  you  must  have  spent  the  Sabbath  in  the  village,  and 
this  is  the  first  time  you  have  come  near  me.  I  should 
have  been  happy  to  take  you  to  church.  Our  hotel  is  a 
very  small  affair,  and  you  must  have  had  a  lonely  time." 

Dr.  Gilbert  said  this  with  his  hand  still  grasping 
that  of  Mr.  Kilgore,  and  leading  him  slowly  into  the 
parlor.  Then,  still  talking  rapidly,  he  took  from  his 
hand  his  hat  and  his  cane,  and  urged  him  into  a  chair, 
departing  for  a  moment  to  carry  the  relinquished  arti 
cles  into  the  hall. 

"  1  suppose  I  have  met  you  before,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Kilgore,  of  the  great  firm  of  Kilgore  Brothers.  "  In 
fact,  I  know  I  have  met  you,  for  I  never  forget 
faces,  but  I  cannot  recall  the  circumstances  of  our  meet 
ing." 

"  That  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,"  replied  the  doctor, 
heartily  ;  "  but,  really,  I  was  flattering  myself  that  you 
had  called  for  the  sake  of  old  acquaintance." 

Mr.  Kilgore  looked  vexed.  He  had  not  played  his 
cards  discreetly ;  but  the  trick  was  lost,  and  he  must 
look  out  for  the  next  one.  So  he  said :  "  Dr.  Gilbert, 
be  kind  enough  to  recall  our  interview.  I  have  certainly 
conversed  with  you." 

"  I  called  upon  you  one  morning,  in  New  York,  to 
endeavor  to  get  you  to  publish  a  novel  written  by  my 
daughter.  Perhaps  you  will  remember  that  there  was 


326  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

an  insane  man  in  at  the  same  time,  who  had  a  manu 
script  on  the  millennium,  which  he  was  anxious  to  get 
published." 

Mr.  Kilgorev  was  still  in  the  fog.  Matters  of  that 
kind  were  of  every-day  occurrence  in  the  little  counting- 
room. 

"  Do  you  not  remember,"  pursued  the  doctor,  "  send 
ing  your  man  Ruddock  out  of  the  room,  and  calling  me 
back  to  ask  me  whether  my  daughter  was  obedient  or 
not  1  Do  you  not  remember  getting  excited  about  dis 
obedient  daughters  ?  " 

It  was  evident  from  Mr.  Kilgore's  face,  that  he  re 
membered  the  scene  very  well.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
recollection  at  all.  It  came  to  him  accompanied  by  a 
vague  impression  that  he  had  not  treated  Dr.  Gilbert 
with  much  consideration,  and  that  Dr.  Gilbert's  present 
cordiality  might  not  be  so  genuine  as  it  seemed. 

"  We  all  have  our  ways,  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore, 
by  way  of  apology  for  whatever  the  doctor  might  recall 
from  that  interview  of  an  offensive  character.  "  We  all 
have  our  ways.  I  suppose  I'm  a  little  sharp  and  hard 
sometimes,  but  my  business  has  the  tendency  to  make 
me  so." 

"  Never  mind  about  what  passed  on  that  occasion," 
said  the  doctor,  laughing  heartily.  "  If  everybody  who 
meets  you  on  similar  business,  is  as  stupid  and  simple 
as  I  was,  it  would  not  be  strange  if  it  should  make  you 
sharp  and  hard.  It  is  enough  that  we  know  each  other, 
and  that  you  are  in  Crampton.  Now  what  can  I  do  for 
you  ?  By  the  way,  you  are  not  interested  in  the  Rug- 
gles  estate,  are  you  ?  " 

The  face  grew  red  again,  and  the  florid  tint  rose  and 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  327 

re-enveloped  the  bald  crown.  "  I  was  passing  through 
Crampton,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore,  hesitatingly,  and  turning 
from  Dr.  Gilbert's  fixed  gaze,  "  and  learning  that  an  old 
acquaintance  of  mine  was  here — a  young  woman — I 
thought  I  would  call  upon  her.  I  came  to  you  to  in 
quire  about  her." 

"  Aha  !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  with  a  very  signifi 
cant  smile.  "That  is  the  way  the  wind  lies,  is  it? 
Upon  my  word,  you  New  Yorkers  hold  out  against  age 
right  gallantly." 

Mr.  Kilgore  tried  to   smile,  but  made  very  sorry 

work  of  it.  "  You  misapprehend  me  entirely,"  said  he. 
«  j j » 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  with  an 
other  burst  of  laughter.  "  Sixty — a  New  Yorker — and 
modest !  Why,  it's  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
to  love  a  woman  at  any  age,  but  it's  only  the  boys  that 
are  shy  about  it.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Kilgore,  but  it's  my 
way ;  we  all  have  our  ways,  you  know.  Ha !  ha ! 
ha!" 

Mr.  Kilgore  thought  the  doctor  had  very  queer 
ways,  and  his  opinion  was  agreed  to  by  Aunt  Catharine 
and  Mary,  who  were  listening  to  the  conversation  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  They  had  never  heard  him  go  on  so, 
and  they  wondered  what  he  was  driving  at.  Mr.  Kil 
gore  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  to  hide  his  vexa 
tion  ;  and  then  Dr.  Gilbert  said :  "  By  the  way,  Mr. 
Kilgore,  who  is  this  woman  ?  " 

Mr.  Kilgore  returned,  and  resumed  his  seat  with  an 
air  of  suffering  but  polite  and  patient  dignity.  "  Her 
name  is  Hammett — Mary  Hammett,"  said  he. 

"A  very  excellent  person,"  said  the  doctor.     "I 


328 

know  her  well.  She  has  been  a  teacher  here,  and  if  you 
have  any  serious  designs  with  relation  to  her,  I  have 
only  to  say  that  you  may  go  the  world  all  over  without 
finding  her  superior.  Everybody  loves  her  in  Crampton. 
I  hope  you  have  no  intention  of  taking  her  away  from 
us  at  once.  Eh  ?  " 

Mr.  Kilgore's  tongue  would  not  move.  His  throat 
was  dry,  and  he  tried  to  swallow  something  which 
would  not  go  down. 

"  By  the  way,"  continued  the  imperturbable  doctor, 
"  there  is  some  mystery  about  this  young  woman.  She 
carries  purity  and  truth  in  her  face,  but  we  know  very 
little  about  her.  There  is  a  story  that  her  father  is 
very  cruel,  and  will  not  permit  her  to  marry  the  man 
of  her  choice  ;  but  it  seems  very  strange  that  any  man 
can  drive  so  good  a  daughter  as  she  must  be  from  home, 
simply  because  she  chooses  to  marry  the  man  she  loves." 

Mr.  Kilgore's  face  and  head  fired  up  again.  He 
looked  Dr.  Gilbert  almost  fiercely  in  the  eye,  to  see  if 
he  was  making  game  of  him ;  but  that  gentleman's 
front  bore  the  scrutiny  with  obstinate  unconsciousness. 

"  That's  a  lie,  sir — a  lie !  I  know  her  father  well,"  said 
Mr.  Kilgore.  "I  know  all  about  this  matter.  She 
wanted  to  marry  her  father's  understrapper — a  sneaking 
clerk,  who  took  advantage  of  his  position  to  cheat  her 
out  of  her  heart.  I  know  him  well,  sir.  He  is  not 
worth  a  cent — he  could  not  support  a  wife,  if  he  had 
one." 

"  Good  fellow,  though,  isn't  he  ?  "  said  the  doctor, 
interrogatively. 

"  He  don't  know  his  place,  sir — he  don't  know  his 
place,"  responded  Mr.  Kilgore. 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  329 

"  Well,  there  are  two  things  in  his  favor,  at  least," 
said  Dr.  Gilbert,  decidedly.  "  He  has  had  the  taste  to 
select  one  of  the  best  women  in  the  world,  and  has  man 
ifested  qualities  that  evidently  have  secured  the  love  of 
this  woman.  I  would  take  that  evidence  before  the  cer 
tificate  of  any  man  living." 

"  You  don't  know  the  circumstances,  doctor,"  said 
Mr.  Kilgore. 

"  Well,  I  perceive  that  you  are  evidently  not  the 
man  she  has  chosen,  so  that  my  rallying  has  all  been 
wild.  I  hope  you  will  pardon  my  levity,  for  I  really 
feel  very  much  interested  in  Miss  Hammett,  and  now 
that  I  meet  one  who  knows  her  father,  I  wish  to  secure 
his  good  offices  on  her  behalf.  Just  think  of  it  now, 
Mr.  Kilgore.  Here  is  a  young  woman  who  has  given 
her  heart  to  a  man — never  mind  whether  he  be  young 
or  old.  That  man  may  be  poor.  I  was  poor  once,  and 
so  were  you,  if  I  have  heard  correctly.  Now  you  are 
rich,  and  I  am  comfortable ;  and  if  this  man  is  as  indus 
trious  as  we  have  been,  he  may  be  as  prosperous. 
Suppose  you,  when  young,  had  been  placed  in  his  cir 
cumstances  :  what  would  you  have  said  of  the  man  who 
should  deny  to  you  his  daughter,  because  you  were 
poor  ?  What  would  you  have  thought  of  a  man  who, 
after  his  daughter  had  pledged  her  truth  to  you,  should 
drive  her  from  his  home  because  she  would  not  renounce 
her  pledge,  and  lose  that  which  was  more  valuable  to 
her  than  all  the  world  besides?  I  say  it  would  be 
brutal,  and  you  would  say  that  it  was  damnable.  Now, 
if  you  know  this  woman's  father,  you  can  make  yourself 
happy  for  a  lifetime  by  bringing  about  a  reconciliation 
between  them.  It  is  really  too  bad  for  them  to  live  so. 


330  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

It's  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  to  him.  I  would  not  stand 
in  his  shoes,  and  take  his  responsibilities,  for  his  wealth 
ten  times  told." 

Dr.  Gilbert  said  all  this  impetuously,  without  giving 
Mr.  Kilgore  an  opportunity  to  get  in  a  word.  When 
he  got  a  chance  to  speak,  his  face  was  almost  purple 
with  his  pent-up  excitement.  "This  woman's  father, 
sir,  has  been  disobeyed,  and  there  is  nothing  that  en 
rages  him  like  disobedience.  I  know  him  well — well, 
sir — well.  That  daughter  can  have  as  good  a  home 
with  him  as  ever  daughter  had,  but  her  will  must  come 
under,  sir — come  under.  He  will  not  tolerate  disobe 
dience  in  his  dependents." 

"  She  has  arrived  at  her  majority,  I  believe,"  sug 
gested  the  doctor. 

"  But  she  is  a  daughter,  and  a  dependent." 

"  No,  thank  God  !  she  is  not  a  dependent.  She 
takes  care  of  herself,  and  earns  her  own  living.  If  I 
were  to  offer  her  a  living  to-day,  as  a  companion  of  my 
daughter,  she  would  not  accept  it,  because  she  will  be 
independent.  No,  no !  Thank  God,  she  is  not  a  de 
pendent  ! " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Kilgore,  swallowing  intently  to 
get  rid  of  his  rage,  "  we  cannot  discuss  this  matter. 
Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  inform  me  where  Miss 
Hammett  is  ?  I  have  visited  the  school-house  and  her 
lodgings,  in  vain.  She  seems  to  have  disappeared  sud 
denly.  Do  you  know  where  she  is  ?  " 

"I  do,  sir." 

"  Will  you  direct  me  to  her  *?  " 

"  She  is  in  my  house." 

"  Will  you  lead  me  to  her  room  ?  " 


AN  AMEEICAN   STOKY.  331 

u  She  does  not  receive  calls  in  her  room.  I  will  tell 
her,  if  you  wish,  that  Mr.  Kilgore  waits  in  the  parlor  to 
see  her." 

"  No,  no,  for  God's  sake  !  don't  tell  her  I  am  here. 
I  wish  to  take  her  by  surprise." 

There  was  a  rustle  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and 
Aunt  Catharine  slid  down,  and  came  directly  into  the 
parlor,  her  black  eyes  flashing  with  excitement,  and  a 
bright  red  spot  glowing  on  either  cheek.  "  Miss  Ham- 
mett  will  not  see  her  father,"  said  Aunt  Catharine; 
"  and  if  he's  half  of  a  man,  he  will  clear  out  and  let  her 
alone." 

"  Catharine  !  Why,  Catharine  !  "  exclaimed  the 
doctor. 

"  I  don't  care  a  bit — not  a  single  bit.  A  man  that 
talks  and  acts  as  he  does,  ought  not  to  have  any 
daughter." 

Mr.  Kilgore  turned  away  from  Aunt  Catharine  in 
disgust,  and  then  rose  and  stood  before  Dr.  Gilbert,  so 
excited  that  he  shook  in  every  fibre  of  his  frame. 
"  Her  father  !  eh  ?  Did  you  know  that  woman  to  be 
my  daughter  1 " 

Dr.  Gilbert  rose  at  the  question,  and  answered  very 
decidedly,  "  I  did,  sir." 

"  Do  you  call  this  courteous  treatment  ?  " 

"  I  will  call  it  what  I  choose.  I  beg  you  to  take  oie 
same  liberty." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  I  call  it  damned  uncourteous  treat 
ment." 

"  Your  language  is  less  polite  than  emphatic,  but  it 
harms  nobody." 

Mr.  Kilgore  started  to  leave  the  room.     Dr.  Gilbert 


332  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

passed  out  before  him,  and  arrested  him  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  see  my  daughter,  sir  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Kilgore,  savagely. 

"No,  sir,  I  will  not;"  and  Dr.  Gilbert  planted 
himself  firmly  before  the  enraged  father,  and  waved  him 
back. 

Mr.  Kilgore  stood  a  moment  with  his  hand  uplifted, 
as  if  about  to  strike.  The  doctor  watched  his  eye, 
which  suddenly  grew  bloodshot,  while  a  purple  tinge 
spread  over  his  features  and  forehead.  The  man  was 
evidently  arrested  by  a  strange  feeling  in  his  head,  for 
he  suddenly  slapped  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  as  if  to 
dissipate  an  attack  of  dizziness ;  then  he  staggered,  and 
fell  to  the  floor  like  a  log. 

Mr.  Kilgore  was  in  a  fit. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  333 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 


MR.     KILGORE    RECOVERS    HIS  HEALTH,     AND     HIS    DAUGHTER 
RECOVERS   SOMETHING  BETTER. 


WHEN  Fanny  returned,  full  of  anxiety  and  curiosity, 
from  her  school  at  noon,  she  found  the  family  with  dis 
turbed  and  solemn  faces,  actively  engaged  in  minister 
ing  to  their  unexpected  patient.  Mary,  intensely  ex 
cited,  was  busy  with  such  offices  for  her  father  as  she 
could  perform  without  entering  his  presence,  though  her 
caution  was  unnecessary,  for  he  was  unconscious.  Dr. 
Gilbert  had  bled  him  after  his  removal  to  a  bed.  This 
had  relieved  his  more  urgent  symptoms  ;  but  there  fol 
lowed  long  fits  of  fainting,  and  these,  in  turn,  had  been 
succeeded  by  a  violent  reaction,  accompanied  by  a  hot 
delirium.  He  raved  about  his  daughter,  alternately 
cursing  her  for  her  disobedience,  and  piteously  pleading 
with  her  to  return  to  her  home.  Much  of  this  inco 
herent  language  Mary  overheard ;  and  it  was  the  cause 
of  a  profound  revulsion  in  her  feelings.  It  called  back 
the  old  love  which  she  once  had  cherished  for  her  father, 
and  in  her  sensitive  spirit  awakened  questions  as  to  the 
propriety  of  what  she  had  done.  How  far  was  she 


334: 

guiltily  responsible  for  this  catastrophe  ?  Had  she  not 
been  selfish  ?  Had  she  not  been  hasty  ?  If  her  father 
should  die,  would  not  the  blame  of  his  death  be  at  her 
charge  ? 

Her  father  had  seemed  to  her  like  an  iron  man — a 
man  without  a  heart.  She  had  never  dreamed  that  any 
event  could  throw  him  from  his  balance — that  any  ex 
citement  that  he  might  feel  on  her  account  could  pro 
ceed  to  such  a  crisis  as  that  which  had  prostrated  him. 
As  he  lay,  helpless  and  moaning,  away  from  home  and 
friends,  a  fountain  of  long  frozen  and  pent-up  tenderness 
in  her  heart  gushed  forth.  The  hard,  imperious,  defiant 
father  had  repulsed  not  only  herself,  but  her  sympathy 
and  affection ;  the  helpless  and  friendless  father  melt 
ed  her. 

It  was  natural,  of  course,  that,  in  this  hour  of  her 
darkness  and  trial,  she  should  call  upon  Arthur  Blague 
for  assistance.  Accordingly,  all  the  time  he  could  spare 
from  his  business,  he  spent  at  the  bedside  of  the  patient, 
ministering  to  his  wants,  and  controlling  him  in  the 
more  violent  demonstrations  of  his  disease. 

Days  came  and  went,  Fanny  still  attending  to  the  du 
ties  of  the  schoolmistress,  and  the  latter  doing  every  thing 
which  she  could  do  for  her  father.  The  fever  and  the 
delirium  passed  away  at  last,  and  they  threatened  to 
leave  him  in  the  arms  of  death.  Through  all  these 
weary  days  and  nights,  Mary  had  wept  and  prayed — 
wept  for  the  pain  she  had  caused,  and  prayed  for  the 
forgiveness  of  all  that  God  had  seen  of  wrong  in  her 
treatment  of  her  father — prayed  that  he  might  recover, 
and  that  then,  while  his  hands  were  weak,  and  the  eye 
of  the  world,  which  he  so  much  regarded,  was  removed 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  335 

from  him,  the  great  Spirit  which  moulds  and  moves  the 
hearts  of  men,  would  turn  his  heart  toward  her  and  the 
man  whom  her  love  had  made  sacred  to  her. 

On  the  evening  when  the  fever  reached  its  crisis, 
Dr.  Gilbert  came  down  stairs,  and  taking  his  seat  in  the 
parlor  by  Mary,  told  her  that  the  night  would  probably 
decide  her  father's  fate.  She  gathered  from  the  expres 
sion  of  his  face  and  the  tone  of  his  voice,  that,  in  his 
judgment,  the  event  was  problematical.  Up  to  this  time 
she  had  not  consented  that  his  New  York  friends  should 
be  made  aware  of  his  illness,  and  she  felt  that  there  was 
another  terrible  responsibility  upon  her.  She  learned 
that  he  was  lying  in  entire  unconsciousness,  his  excite 
ment  all  gone,  and  his  pulse  but  feebly  fluttering  with 
life.  Her  reserve  was  laid  aside  in  a  moment.  She 
rose  to  her  feet,  struggling  to  control  the  convulsions  of 
her  grief,  ascended  the  stairs,  and,  for  the  first  time,  en 
tered  the  chamber  where  her  father  lay.  Arthur  was 
there,  endeavoring  to  compel  the  patient  to  swallow  a 
stimulating  draught.  She  quietly  took  the  cup  from  his 
hand,  and  indicated  her  wish  that  he  should  retire.  The 
moment  the  door  was  closed,  she  sank  upon  her  knees, 
and,  pressing  her  lips  to  her  father's  cold  and  clammy 
hand,  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  weeping. 

As  the  first  gust  of  her  sorrow  subsided,  she  began 
to  pray.  At  the  beginning,  her  words  w,ere  earnest  and 
importunate  whispers ;  but  soon  her  voice,  in  the  stress 
of  her  passion,  joined  in  the  utterance,  and  the  very 
walls  of  the  room  seemed  to  listen  to,  and  drink  in,  the 
language  of  her  plaint  and  her  petition.  She  prayed 
that  God,  the  All-Loving,  the  All-Merciful,  the  All-Pow 
erful,  would  restore  her  father  to  health — that  then  and 


336 

there  He  would  reveal  Himself  to  succor  and  to  save. 
She  prayed  for  her  own  pardon,  and  for  grace  to  bear 
the  blow,  if  her  father  should  be  taken  from  her.  She 
prayed  that,  if  the  life  which  was  become  so  precious  to 
her  should  be  spared,  out  of  this  great  trial  and  great 
danger  might  spring  precious  fruits  of  good  to  her  and 
all  who  were  dear  to  her.  Often  pausing,  she  kissed  the 
hand  she  held,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Alas  !  that  I  should  be 
the  cause  of  this  !  " 

At  length  she  rose,  and  placed  her  hand  upon  her 
father's  damp  brow,  and  smoothed  back  the  thin,  white 
hair  upon  his  temples,  and  listened  to  his  breathing. 
Then  she  sank  upon  her  knees  again,  and  bathed  his 
hand  with  tears. 

Precious  ministry  of  filial  love !  —  bruised  and 
trodden  under  feet  for  many  long  and  cruel  months,  yet 
still  vigorous  at  the  root,  and  full  of  perfume  in  its 
broken  branches  !  She  felt  the  feeble  pulse,  and 
there  was  a  new  thrill  in  it.  She  looked  upon  the  im 
passive  face,  and  the  pinched,  deathly  look  had  passed 
away.  As  she  gazed,  trembling  with  excitement  and 
hope,  it  seemed,  to  her  sharpened  apprehensions,  as  if  a 
voice  had  whispered  to  her  soul :  "  Your  prayer  is  an 
swered."  So  real  was  the  assurance,  that  she  exclaimed : 
"  My  Heavenly  Father,  I  thank  thee  !  " 

As  she  watched  and  wept,  and  kissed  the  hand  which 
she  still  held,  and  gazed  in  her  father's  face,  she  saw 
tears  form  beneath  the  closed  lids,  and  creep  down  the 
pale  cheeks,  and  leave  their  track  of  healing  where  she 
had  not  seen  tears  before  for  many  years.  She  grasped 
the  hand  she  held  with  the  fervor  of  her  joy,  and  with 
such  emphasis  that  it  seemed  as  if  an  electric  thrill  had 


AN  AMEBICAN   STORY.  337 

been  shot  through  the  sick  man's  frame.  "  Do  you 
know  me  1 "  she  exclaimed.  "  Do  you  know  your 
Mary  ?  " 

The  feeble  lips  tried  to  utter  a  reply,  but  the  tide  of 
life  had  not  yet  risen  to  them.  A  gentle  return  of  the 
pressure  which  she  had  maintained  upon  his  hand  was 
his  response. 

"  And  do  you — can  you — forgive  me  1  Tell  me 
so ; "  and  the  hand,  as  it  responded,  was  covered  with 
kisses. 

Then  came  to  the  excited  and  grateful  daughter  an 
other  gush  of  tears.  Why  does"  she  weep  now  ?  Ah  ! 
there  is  another  question  which  she  longs  to  ask  !  She 
hesitates.  On  that  question  hang  the  equivalents  of  life 
and  death  to  her.  She  had  become  aware  that  behind 
the  veil  of  weak  and  powerless  flesh  before  her,  there 
was  a  spirit  whose  eyes  and  ears  had  been  open  during 
all  her  presence  in  the  chamber.  She  knew,  when  those 
tears  slid  out  upon  her  father's  cheek,  from  eyes  that 
seemed  asleep,  that  there  was  a  wakeful  soul  behind 
them,  in  calm  consciousness  all  the  while.  She  knew  that 
he  had  been  touched  by  her  presence  and  her  prayers. 
She  felt  that  somehow  God  had  made  her  a  minister  of 
life  to  him.  She  shaped  her  question.  It  was  brief, 
and  as  she  breathed  it  to  her  earthly  father,  her  thoughts 
went  upward,  far  above  that  powerless  form,  to  Him 
who  was  feeding  the  springs  of  its  returning  life,  with 
the  prayer  for  favor. 

"  And  him  ]  " 

A  shadow  of  pain  gathered  upon  those  pale  features 
— a  spasm  of  distress — indicative  of  the  struggle  which 
that  little  question  caused  in  his  feeble  mind.  Mary 
15 


338 

watched  Kim  with  trembling  anxiety,  condemning  Jher- 
self  for  her  haste  in  putting  him  to  such  a  trial  in  such 
a  condition.  A  tremor  passed  over  his  frame,  as  if  he 
had  summoned  himself  to  a  great  decision.  Mary  rose 
suddenly  to  her  feet  in  alarm,  and  bent  her  face  close  to 
his.  Slowly  the  long-sealed  eyelids  opened,  and  father 
and  daughter  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes.  The  struggle 
was  over,  and  a  feeble  smile,  full  of  kindness,  lighted  for 
a  moment  the  old  man's  face,  and  then  the  eyes  closed 
again. 

To  this  moment  of  perfect  reconciliation  with  her 
father,  Mary  in  after  years  looked  back  as  the  happiest 
of  her  life.  It  translated  her  at  once  from  the  realm  of 
doubts  and  darkness  in  which  she  had  walked  since  she 
left  her  home,  into  the  realm  of  her  fondest  dreams — 
from  realities  of  the  sternest  mould,  into  probabilities 
of  life  that  seemed  impossible  of  realization  from  the 
supernal  charm  with  which  her  loving  imagination  had 
invested  them.  Broad  and  bright  before  her  opened 
the  pathway  of  the  future.  In  a  moment,  her  heart  had 
travelled  over  the  distance  that  interposed  between  her 
and  him  to  whom  for  many  weary  months  she  had  been 
lost,  in  anticipation  of  the  meeting  which  should  repay 
for  all  anxiety  and  all  suffering.  During  the  rapid  pas 
sage  of  thoughts  that  crowded  through  her  mind,  her 
thanks  went  upward  all  the  time  to  Him  to  whose  over 
ruling  providence  she  traced  all  the  blessedness  of  the 
moment,  as  incense  rises  heavenward  from  censers 
swung  by  unregarding  children. 

As  the  smile  faded  from  her  father's  lips,  she  stooped 
and  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  them,  full  of  tenderness  and 
gratitude,  saying :  "  Father,  you  will  get  well,  and  we 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  339 

shall  be  very,  very  happy  again.  Now  I  must  write 
some  letters,  and  you  must  sleep.  I  shall  sit  with  you 
to-night,  and  no  hand  but  mine  shall  nurse  you  here 
after."  She  then  administered  the  cordial  that  Arthur 
had  left,  and  retired  from  the  room. 

As  she  came  again  into  the  presence  of  the  family, 
her  countenance  beamed  as  if  she  had  stood  upon  the 
Mount  of  Transfiguration.  She  shook  the  doctor's  hand 
in  her  joy,  and  kissed  Aunt  Catharine  and  Fanny.  "  O 
my  friends !  I  am  happier  than  I  can  tell  you,"  she  said. 
"  My  father's  crisis  is  past — he  will  get  well — and  we 
are  friends."  All  were  glad  in  her  happiness,  but  their 
sympathy  was  accompanied  by  a  pang  which  all  ex 
perienced  alike.  That  which  brought  joy  to  her,  sepa 
rated  her  from  them. 

Leaving  her  to  write  her  letters  to  her  New  York 
friends,  informing  them  of  the  illness  of  her  father  and 
his  apparent  amendment,  we  will  pass  over  two  or  three 
days,  and  look  in  upon  one  of  these  friends. 

The  hours  of  business  were  over  in  Mr.  Frank  Sar 
gent's  modest  establishment,  and  its  enterprising  pro 
prietor  had  withdrawn  into  his  little  counting-room,  and 
shut  to  the  door.  For  a  while,  he  thought  of  his  busi 
ness  ;  and  there  came  to  him,  strangely,  thoughts  about 
Miss  Fanny  Gilbert's  novel.  It  had  not  succeeded — 
would  not  sell.  He  must  write  to  the  doctor,  and 
claim  the  fulfilment  of  that  gentleman's  pledge  to  share 
the  loss  which  the  publication  of  the  book  had  occa 
sioned.  He  thought  of  the  doctor,  and  tried  to  imagine 
the  features  of  his  daughter.  He  could  not  get  them 
out  of  his  mind.  They  and  the  book  haunted  him.  If 


340  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

his  thoughts  strayed  away,  or  were  forced  away  into 
other  matters,  they  came  back  immediately  to  them. 

He  tired  of  this  at  last,  and,  unlocking  a  little 
drawer  at  his  side,  he  drew  forth  a  letter  that  he  had 
read  a  thousand  times  before,  but  one  which  always 
gave  him  an  impetus  into  reveries  that  drove  business 
out  of  his  mind.  He  opened  and  read : 

"  Mr  DEAR  FRANK  : 

"  This  night  I  take  one  of  the  most  important  steps 
of  my  life.  My  father  and  I  have  had  a  long  conversa 
tion  about  you,  in  which  he  has  endeavored,  by  promises 
and  threats,  to  make  me  renounce  you,  and  break  my 
pledge  to  you.  I  have  reasoned  with  him,  besought  him, 
on  my  knees  begged  of  him  to  relent,  but  all  to  no  pur 
pose.  He  forbids  you  the  house,  and  commands  me  to 
renounce  you  forever,  or  to  renounce  him.  He  was  very 
angry,  and  is  implacable.  I  have  taken  the  alternative  he 
offers  me.  I  shall  leave  New  York  to-night.  I  leave 
without  seeing  you,  because  I  fear  that  an  interview  would 
shake  my  determination ;  but  I  am  yours — yours  now, 
and  yours  forever.  I  shall  go  where  you  will  not  find 
me,  and,  if  you  love  me — ah  !  Frank,  I  know  you  do — 
you  will  make  no  search  for  me.  I  shall  not  write  to 
you,  because  money  will  buy  the  interception  and  mis 
carriage  of  letters,  but  I  shall  think  of  you,  and  pray 
for  you  every  day,  nay,  all  the  time. 

"  This  may  seem  strange  and  unwarrantable  to  you, 
but,  Frank,  be  true  to  me,  go  into  the  work  of  life,  and 
demonstrate  to  my  father  and  the  world  the  manhood 
there  is  in  you  ;  and  God  will  take  care  of  the  rest.  I 
go,  tmsting  in  that  Providence  which  never  forsakes  the 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  341 

trusting — with  a  firm  faith  that  out  of  this  great  trial 
will  spring  the  choicest  blessings  of  our  lives.  Have  no 
fears  for  me.  If  any  great  trial  befall  me,  you  shall 
know  it ;  and  when  the  time  shall  come  for  the  realiza 
tion  of  our  wishes  and  the  redemption  of  our  pledges? 
it  will  declare  itself.  Never  doubt  me.  I  cannot  be 
untrue  to  you.  Eemember  that  I  leave  my  home  for 
you.  We  may  not  marry  now.  You  are  not  ready  for 
marriage. 

"  Forgive  my  seeming  coolness,  for  my  heart  is  bleed 
ing  for  you.  Do  not  be  unhappy.  Cast  your  care 
upon  Him  who  cares  for  you.  God  bless  you,  Frank, 
and  keep  you !  Your  own 

"MARY." 

The  closing  words  of  this  letter  he  read,  and  read 
again.  The  abrupt  sentences  and  the  marks  of  tears, 
not  yet  obliterated,  showed  in  what  a  passion  of  tender 
ness  they  were  written.  Nearly  three  years  had  passed 
away  since  that  letter  was  received,  and  its  words  were 
the  last  he  had  seen  from  her  hand.  Where  on  the 
earth's  face  she  wandered  or  sojourned,  he  knew  not. 
Whether  she  were  still  in  the  land  of  the  living,  he  knew 
not.  It  had  cost  him  the  daily  exercise  of  all  his  faith 
in  her  and  in  God  to  maintain  his  courage  and  equanim 
ity.  Her  father  had  visited  him  in  anger,  demanding 
the  hiding-place  of  his  daughter;  and  when  he  had 
stated  the  substance  of  this  letter,  and  the  fact  that  he 
absolutely  knew  nothing  of  her,  he  was  told  that  he  lied. 

The  letter  lingered  in  his  hands.  It  was  indued  with 
a  new  charm.  There  was  a  strange  vitality  in  its  utter 
ances  that  took  hold  of  his  heart  with  a  fresh  power. 


342 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER  : 


As  he  sat  regarding  it,  it  seemed  as  if  the  spirit  of  Mary 
was  at  his  side,  looking  over  his  shoulder.  In  the  twi 
light,  he  hardly  dared  to  stir ;  and  a  superstitious  fear 
crept  over  him — a  fear  that  his  Mary  was  indeed  dead, 
and  was  present  with  him  in  a  form  which  he  could 
not  see. 

He  was  startled  from  these  imaginations  at  last,  by 
the  entrance  of  his  errand-boy,  with  a  package  of  letters 
from  the  post-office.  The  first  upon  which  he  laid  his 
hand  had  upon  it  the  post-mark,  "  Crampton,  N.  H." 
The  hand  was  the  same  that  he  had  been  perusing.  He 
opened  it  and  read  : 


"  DEAR  FRANK  : 


"  Come ! 


"MARY." 


He  sprang  to  his  feet  transformed.  The  listlessness 
was  gone,  and  every  nerve  in  his  frame  thrilled  with 
excitement.  The  night-boat  had  left,  and,  though  im 
patient  beyond  expression,  he  was  obliged  to  wait  until 
morning  before  setting  out.  In  the  mean  time,  he  had 
a  world  of  business  to  attend  to.  He  sent  for  his  prin 
cipal  clerk,  told  him  that  he  should  be  absent  for  several 
days — how  long  he  could  not  tell — and  gave  him  all  the 
necessary  directions  for  carrying  on  the  business.  He 
replied  to  his  letters,  laid  out  work  for  his  clerks,  and  in 
three  hours  had  transacted  more  business  than  an  ordi 
nary  man  would  have  done  in  as  many  days.  He 
looked  forward  and  provided  for  the  payment  of  his 
notes  ;  and,  arranging  for  a  daily  interchange  of  letters 
between  himself  and  his  establishment,  retired  to  his 
boarding-house  to  prepare  for  his  journey. 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  343 

Now  that  we  are  to  see  more  of  Mr.  Frank  Sargent, 
we  should  know  more  about  him.  It  will  be  seen  readily 
enough  that  he  was  not  a  great  man.  Why  did  so  good 
and  so  noble  a  woman  love  him  1  Simply  because  he 
was  true,  and  had  life  in  him.  Wherever  he  went,  there 
went  gladness  and  vivacity.  Frank  Sargent  was  always 
wide  awake.  He  only  needed  the  presence  of  half  a 
dozen  people  to  stimulate  him  into  the  most  delightful 
drolleries.  People  loved  to  hear  him  talk,  whether  he 
uttered  sense  or  nonsense.  He  could  sit  down  by  the 
side  of  an  old  woman  and  charm  her  by  his  tide  of  small 
talk,  or  frolic  with  a  band  of  merry  children,  until  his 
coat-tails  were  in  danger.  He  was  a  great  man  in  small 
parties,  an  indispensable  man  at  picnics,  the  superinten 
dent  of  a  Sabbath-school,  a  "  bloody  Whig  "  in  politics, 
as  he  delighted  to  call  himself,  and  the  most  zealous  and 
earnest  of  his  circle  in  a  revival  of  religion.  He  was  a 
man  who  stirred  up  every  circle  he  entered,  and  was 
welcome  everywhere  except  at  the  house  of  the  elder 
Kilgore. 

The  reader  has  already  learned  incidentally,  that  he 
had  been  a  clerk  in  the  house  of  the  Kilgore  Brothers. 
In  this  house,  he  had  made  himself  very  popular,  both 
at  home  and  away,  for  he  had  travelled  for  the  house 
quite  extensively.  The  old  man  had  once  greatly  de 
lighted  in  Frank  Sargent.  When  he  came  back  from 
his  long  trips,  it  was  the  highest  entertainment  the  elder 
Kilgore  had  at  his  command,  to  jnvite  Frank  home  to 
dine  with  him,  and  hear  him  relate  his  adventures  by  the 
way,  and  tell  of  his  ingenious  methods  for  entrapping 
"  lame  ducks,"  a  kind  of  game  which  the  house,  in  its 
large  and  widely  extended  operations,  had  a  good  deal 


344  MISS  GILBEKT'S  CAHEEK: 

to  do  with.  Many  were  the  hours  which  the  vivacious 
traveller  helped  Mr.  KUgore  to  pass  pleasantly  away, 
and  great  was  Mr.  Kilgore's  admiration  of,  and  confi 
dence  in  him.  Fertile,  volatile,  voluble,  with  a  great 
capacity  for  business,  a  thorough  devotion  to  the  inter 
ests  of  his  employer,  and  a  sense  of  Christian  honor 
which  always  manifested  itself  as  the  basis  of  his  char 
acter,  he  was,  indeed,  no  mean  companion  for  an  old 
man  like  Mr.  Kilgore. 

Still,  Mr.  Kilgore  always  regarded  him  as  an  in 
ferior — a  man  to  be  patronized  and  encouraged,  particu 
larly  so  long  as  he  was  an  efficient  minister  to  the  pros 
perity  of  the  house,  and  aided  in  the  digestion  of  a  good 
dinner.  Frank  Sargent  knew  the  old  man,  and  humored 
him  by  always  "  keeping  his  place  " — going  no  further 
than  he  was  led.  This,  Mr.  Kilgore  appreciated ;  and 
he  regarded  the  young  man  with  great  complacency. 
Of  course,  when  the  clerk  visited  Mr.  Kilgore's  house, 
he  met  Mr.  Kilgore's  daughter  ;  but  Mr.  Kilgore's  esti 
mate  of  his  own  position  and  that  of  his  family,~and  his 
confidence  in  Frank  Sargent  as  a  young  man  who  knew 
his  place,  forbade  the  suspicion  that  between  the  young 
people  there  could  be  more  than  the  common  inter 
changes  of  politeness.  In  fact,  he  had,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  apologized  to  his  daughter  for  bringing 
Mr.  Frank  Sargent  home  with  him. 

After  Mr.  Kilgore  had  finished  his  heavy  dinner,  and 
had  become  too  dull  to^listen  to  the  conversation  of  his 
talkative  clerk,  the  young  man  felt  at  liberty  to  devote 
himself  to  the  daughter,  and  she,  in  turn,  felt  bound  to 
entertain  him.  We  are  not  aware  that  there  is  any 
philosophy  that  will  satisfactorily  account  for  two 


AN  AMEEICAN   STOET.  345 

people,  totally  unlike,  falling  in  love  with  each  other. 
It  is  a  matter  of  every-day  occurrence,  as  all  know.  At 
any  rate,  Frank  Sargent  and  Mary  Kilgore  met  but  a 
few  times  in  friendly  intercourse,  before,  by  steps  which 
they  did  not  mark  in  the  passage,  they  became  lovers. 
Thus  the  matter  went  on  for  weeks  and  months,  the  old 
man,  in  his  purse-proud  blindness,  seeing  nothing  of  the 
state  of  affairs.  Mary  occasionally  dropped  in  at  the 
store,  and  it  was  there,  in  her  conversations  with  the 
young  man,  that  the  jealousy  of  the  other  clerks  was 
aroused,  Mr.  Dan  Buck's  among  the  rest. 

At  last,  Frank  Sargent  began  to  think  that  if  he  was 
to  become  the  husband  of  Mary  Kilgore,  he  must  be 
sometfiing  more  than  a  clerk,  and  have  more  than  a 
clerk's  income.  Both  he  and  Mary  supposed  that  the 
old  man  knew,  or  suspected,  their  attachment  for  each 
other  ;  and  furthermore  believed,  from  his  cordiality  to 
the  young  man,  that  he  looked  upon  the  matter  with 
favor.  So  Frank  Sargent,  on  one  occasion,  proposed  to 
Mr.  Kilgore  the  subject  of  going  into  business  on  his 
own  account.  The  old  gentleman  expressed  surprise 
and  regret,  but  would  not  interfere.  He  knew  that  the 
young  man's  personal  popularity  would  take  custom 
from  his  own  house,  but  he  was  too  proud  to  admit,  for 
an  instant,  that  anybody  was  essential  to  the  house  of 
the  Kilgore  Brothers  but  himself. 

Frank  Sargent  then  set  up  for  himself,  and  made 
a  good  beginning.  Mr.  Kilgore's  old  customers,  many 
of  them,  came  to  him,  and  he  had  the  good-will  of  all 
his  associates.  But  his  love  matters  would  have  to 
come  to  a  crisis  sooner  or  later,  and  so  it  was  agreed 
between  the  lovers  that  he  should  make  to  the  father  of 
15* 


34:6  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

the  young  woman  a  formal  proposition  for  her  hand. 
Great  was  the  surprise,  and  greater  the  wrath,  of  the 
great  Kilgore,  when  the  audacious  young  bookseller  sub 
mitted  his  confession  of  love,  and  his  request  for  the 
bestowal  of  its  object  upon  him  by  its  nominal  owner. 
The  old  man  was  at  first  thunder-struck,  then  indignant, 
then  angry.  He  drove  him  out  of  his  counting-room, 
forbade  him  his  house,  and,  from  that  moment,  was  his 
enemy  ;  losing  no  opportunity  to  injure  him  in  his  busi 
ness,  and  striving  by  all  allowable  means  to  crush  him. 

The  rest  of  this  long  story  is  sufficiently  in  the 
reader's  possession.  Mutual  friends  contrived  meetings 
for  the  lovers,  and  at  last,  after  a  painful  scene  between 
father  and  daughter,  the  latter  fled,  leaving  only  the' letter 
which  Frank  Sargent  had  perused  every  day  for  three 
years  before  he  received  another  from  the  same  hand. 

Bright  and  early  on  the  morning  succeeding  the 
events  in  the  young  publisher's  counting-room,  that  gen 
tleman,  having  passed  a  sleepless  night,  stepped  on 
board  the  good  steamer  Bunker  Hill,  and  set  out  on  his 
journey  to  Crampton. 

Alas !  for  the  impatient  feet  that  trod  the  deck  of  the 
industriously  toiling  steamer  !  If  Frank  Sargent  could 
have  increased  her  speed  by  the  application  of  that  frac 
tion  of  a  one-horse  power  that  was  in  him,  he  would 
contentedly  have  labored  at  the  crank  all  the  way. 
When,  at  last,  he  landed,  and  commenced  the  passage 
up  the  valley  as  "  a  deck  passenger  "  of  the  slow  coach 
— for  he  always  rode  where  he  could  see  the  horses,  and 
talk  with  the  driver — it  seemed  as  if  the  long  miles  had 
surpassed  the  statute  to  a  criminal  degree.  But  all 
journeys  have  an  end,  and,  still  sleepless,  he  found  him- 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  347 

self  at  length  seated  with  Cheek  upon  the  box  of  the 
little  Crampton  coach. 

Frank  Sargent  could  not  have  fallen  in  with  any  one 
better  informed  than  Cheek,  of  the  points  upon  which 
he  needed  light.  So,  by  a  process  which  a  thorough 
bred  New  Yorker  understands  in  an  eminent  degree,  he 
"  pumped  "  him  all  the  way ;  praised  his  horses,  and 
managed  to  get  out  of  him  Mary's  history  since  he  had 
known  her.  He  learned  also  of  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Kilgore  in  Crampton,  of  the  dangerous  sickness  he  had 
survived  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  of  the  rumor, 
current  in  the  village,  that  father  and  daughter  had 
"  made  up,"  and  that  "  the  whole  thing  had  been 
straightened." 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Cheek  with  emphasis,  as  a  general 
summing  up  of  his  revelations,  "  that  any  man  who 
takes  Mary  Kilgore  out  of  Crampton  against  her  will, 
will  kick  up  the  greatest  row  that  ever  was  started  in 
this  place." 

Now  it  did  not  occur  to  Cheek  at  all,  that  the  lively 
gentleman  who  sat  upon  the  box  with  him,  and  begged 
the  privilege  of  driving  his  horses,  was  Mary's  lover ; 
so,  after  Frank  Sargent  had  succeeded  in  getting  all  the 
information  he  wanted  from  the  driver,  the  latter  under 
took  to  obtain  fitting  repayment.  "  I  reckon,  perhaps, 
you  know  Mary  Hammett,  as  we  used  to  call  her, 
pretty  well,  don't  you  1 "  said  Cheek. 

"  Know  her  1  I  think  I  do,"  responded  his  pas 
senger. 

"  Brother,  perhaps  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  Cousin,  may  be  ?  " 


348 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Some  sort  of  relation,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Well,  no— not  exactly." 

"  Neighbor  ?  " 

"Yes,  neighbor — old  neighbor — old  friend — knew 
her  years  ago — known  her  ever  so  long." 

"  Well,  I  guess  she'll  be  glad  to  see  you,  now.  You 
don't  know  the  feller  she's  engaged  to,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh !  yes ;  I  know  him  very  well ;  he's  a  particular 
friend  of  mine." 

"  I  vow  !  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Cheek ;  "  he's 
punkins,  ain't  he  1 " 

"Some,"  replied  Frank  Sargent,  with  a  laugh  he 
could  not  repress.  Then  he  added :  "  What  kind  of  a  man 
do  you  suppose  he  is  ?  How  do  you  think  he  looks  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  driver.  "  My 
mind's  always  running  on  one  thing  and  another  when 
I'm  driving  along,  and  I've  thought  him  up  a  good  many 
times.  I  reckon  I  should  know  him  if  I  should  see 
him." 

"  Just  describe  him,  then.  I  can  tell  you  whether 
you  are  right  or  not." 

"  Well,  I  reckon,"  said  Cheek,  squinting  across  the 
top  of  a  tall  pine-tree  they  were  passing,  "  that  he's  a 
tall  feller,  with  black  whiskers  and  black  clothes,  and  an 
eye  that  kind  o'  looks  into  you.  It  don't  seem  to  me 
that  he  ever  says  much,  but  he  has  an  easy  swing,  that 
makes  people  think  he  knows  every  thing,  and  isn't 
afraid.  I've  always  had  a  notion,  too,  that  he  wears  a 
thundering  big  gold  watch-chain,  and  a  seal  with  a  kind 
of  red  stone  in  it.  I  ain't  certain  about  the  stone,  but 
it's  red  or  yellow,  I'll  bet  my  head."  Then  Cheek 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  34:9 

scratched  the  head  that  he  was  so  willing  to  risk,  and 
added,  "I  don't  know — you  can't  tell  about  these 
women.  Sometimes  the  best  of  'em  will  take  a  shine 
to  a  little,  flirtin',  fiddlin'  snip,  and  be  so  tickled  with  him, 
they  don't  know  nothing  what  to  do  with  themselves." 

Frank  Sargent  laughed  with  a  "haw-haw,"  that 
made  the  woods  ring.  "  Capital  hit !  "  said  he.  "  Cap 
ital  hit ! "  Then  he  laughed  again. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  inquired  Cheek,  dubi 
ously. 

"  Oh  !  nothing.  I — I  was  wondering  whether  I  could 
guess  as  nearly  the  appearance  of  a  girl  in  Crampton, 
or  on  the  road,  that  swears  by  the  driver  of  this  coach." 

"  Well,  go  in  !  "  said  Cheek,  taking  a  squint  across 
the  top  of  a  maple. 

Mr.  Frank  Sargent  very  good-naturedly  "  went  in," 
in  these  words  :  "  She's  a  long  girl,  with  blue  eyes,  about 
a  head  taller  than  you  are ;  sings  in  the  choir  without 
opening  her  teeth;  writes  verses  about  flowers  and 
clouds,  and  children  that  die  with  the  measles,  and 
works  samplers." 

"  Now,  what's  the  use  of  running  a  feller  ?  "  said 
Cheek.  "  You  know  you  ain't  within  gun-shot." 

"  Well,  tell  me  all  about  her,  then,"  said  the  publish 
er,  who  was  willing  to  do  any  thing  to  pass  away  the  time. 

"  She's  no  such  kind  of  a  bird  as  you've  been  talking 
about,  I  tell  you.  She's  right — she  is.  You  can't  hardly 
tally  how  she's  coming  out,  because  she  isn't  exactly  a 
woman  yet.  She's  kind  o'  betwixt  hay  and  grass,  you 
know — got  on  long  dresses,  but  looks  odd  in  'em." 

"  She  must  be  very  young,"  remarked  Cheek's  much- 
amused  auditor. 


350 

"  Young,  but  not  green,"  said  Cheek.  "  She's  got  an 
eye  that  snaps  like  that,"  and  he  illustrated  her  visual 
peculiarity  by  cracking  his  whip  in  the  immediate  vicin 
ity  of  his  horses'  ears.  "  She's  waiting  for  me,  you 
know,"  continued  the  communicative  lover,  "  and  I'm 
beauing  her  round,  and  sort  o'  bringing  her  up.  If  I 
hadn't  taken  her  young,  I  never  should  do  any  thing  with 
her  in  the  world.  It's  just  with  women  as  it  is  with 
colts.  You  want  to  halter-break  'em  when  they're  little, 
and  get  'em  kind  o'  wonted  to  the  feel  of  the  harness, 
and  then,  wrhen  they're  grown  up,  they're  all  ready  to 
drive.  She's  one  of  them  high-strung  creatures — all 
full  of  fuss  and  steel  springs — that'll  take  a  taut  rein,  I 
tell  you,  when  her  blood's  up.  She's  just  like  her 
mother." 

"  Got  a  smart  mother,  has  she  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  No  mistake  about  that.  Oh !  she's  just 
as  full  of  jasm!" 

Frank  Sargent  laughed  again.  "You've  got  the 
start  of  me,"  said  he.  "Now  tell  me  what  'jasm' 
is." 

"  Well,  that's  a  sort  of  word,  I  guess,  that  made  it 
self,"  said  Cheek.  "  It's  a  good  one,  though — jasm  is. 
If  you'll  take  thunder  and  lightning,  and  a  steamboat  and 
a  buzz-saw,  and  mix  'em  up,  and  put  'em  into  a  woman, 
that's  jasm.  Now  my  girl  is  just  like  her  mother,  and 
it's  a  real  providence  that  I  got  hold  of  her  as  I  did,  for 
if  she'd  run  five  years  longer  without  any  halter,  she'd 
have  been  too  much  for  me — yes,  sir." 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation,  the  spire  of  the 
Crampton  church  came  boldly  into  sight,  and  the  laugh 
that  rose  to  the  young  publisher's  lips  died  away  as  if 


AN   AMEKICAN    STOEY.  351 

his  mouth  had  been  smitten.  A  great  crisis  in  his  life 
was  doubtless  before  him.  A  great  question  was  to  be 
decided.  He  was  to  meet  again  one  whom  he  loved  al 
most  idolatrously — one  whom  circumstances  had  hidden 
from  his  vision  and  withheld  from  his  embrace  with 
threats  of  eternal  separation.  He  felt  his  heart  thump 
ing  heavily  against  its  walls,  and  trembled  with  excite 
ment. 

"  Stop  at  the  hotel  1 "  inquired  Cheek,  who  had  been 
struck  with  his  passenger's  sudden  silence. 

"  Take  my  baggage  there,  and  me  to  Dr.  Gilbert's," 
was  the  reply. 

Then  Cheek  took  from  its  pocket  the  little  horn 
which  daily  proclaimed  to  the  people  of  Crampton  that 
the  mail  was  in,  or  coming  in,  and  blew  a  most  ingen 
ious  refrain — the  instrument  leaping  out  into  various 
angular  flourishes,  as  if  a  fish-horn  had  got  above  its 
business,  and  were  ambitious  of  the  reputation  of  a 
key-bugle. 

"  That's  Dr.  Gilbert's  house,"  said  Cheek,  putting  his 
horses  into  a  run.  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  was  pale.  He 
looked  at  the  house.  He  saw  the  door  partly  open,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman's  face  and  form.  The  horses 
were  pulled  up  at  the  gate  with  a  grand  flourish,  and  the 
passenger  leaped  from  the  box ;  but  before  he  had  ad 
vanced  a  rod,  Mary  was  on  her  way  to  meet  him.  They 
rushed  into  each  other's  arms,  and  stood  for  a  minute 
weeping,  without  a  thought  of  the  eyes  that  were  upon 
them.  Aunt  Catharine  was  at  the  window,  crying  like 
a  child.  Fanny  was  wild  with  excitement,  and  ran  down 
the  walk  to  meet  the  lovers. 

During  all  this  scene,  the  Crampton  coach  stood  very 


352  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

still,  and  its  driver's  eyes  were  very  wide  open.  He 
sat  and  watched  all  parties  until  they  entered  the  house ; 
then,  turning  to  his  horses,  and  reining  them  homeward, 
he  gave  vent  to  his  astonishment  by  the  double-shotted 
exclamation — "  Christopher  Jerusalem  !  " 


AN  AMEEICAN  STOKY.  353 


CHAPTEE   XX. 

WHICH  CONTAINS  A  VERY    PLEASANT  WEDDING,   AND    A  VERY 
SAD   ACCIDENT. 

AFTER  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  had  been  introduced  to 
the  Gilbert  family,  and  had  renewed  his  acquaintance 
with  Dr.  Gilbert  by  the  most  extravagant  demonstrations 
of  cordiality,  the  reunited  lovers  were  left  for  a  whole 
blessed  hour  in  one  another's  society.  In  that  hour,  a 
great  deal  of  talking  was  accomplished,  and  a  great  deal 
of  happiness  experienced.  Mary  communicated  to  her 
lover  the  outlines  of  her  own  story,  already  narrated,  and 
informed  him  concerning  the  condition  of  her  father. 
Since  his  reconciliation  to  her,  she  had  hardly  left  his 
bedside,  and  had  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  him  daily 
mending  under  her  assiduous  nursing  and  her  loving 
ministrations.  That  afternoon  she  had  informed  him  of 
the  expected  arrival  of  her  lover,  and,  though  the  matter 
was  painful  to  him,  she  was  sure  that  his  mind  was  de 
cided  upon  it,  and  that  he  would  interpose  no  further 
obstacles  to  their  union.  He  was  still  very  weak,  and 
would  be  unable  to  see  his  old  clerk  for  some  days,  and 
probably  would  not  be  strong  enough  to  leave  Crampton 
for  a  fortnight. 


354: 

After  tea,  Mary  insisted  that  Frank  should  leave  her, 
and  get  the  sleep  which  he  needed.  He  had  never  been 
more  wide  awake  than  at  this  time,  but  he  loyally 
obeyed,  and  taking  his  leave,  crossed  over  to  the  Cramp- 
ton  Hotel,  and  selected  his  lodgings.  The  little,  yellow- 
breasted  piazza  was  full  of  people  when  he  arrived,  not 
one  of  whom  was  not  aware  of  his  relations  to  the 
schoolmistress.  In  fact,  all  the  village  was  gossiping 
about  his  arrival,  and  everybody  was  anxious  to  get  a 
look  at  him. 

The  next  day  he  spent,  of  course,  at  the  Gilbert 
mansion  ;  and  if  he  had  been  a  resident  of  it  for  a  twelve 
month,  he  could  not  have  been  more  at  home.  He  first 
elected  Fanny  to  be  his  sister,  by  a  "  unanimous  vote." 
Then  he  conciliated  Fred  by  giving  him  a  ride  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  telling  him  half  a  dozen  funny  stories ; 
and  wound  up  the  achievements  of  the  day  by  kissing  Aunt 
Catharine,  who  pretended  to  be  terribly  offended,  but 
who  finally  acknowledged  to  Mary  that  he  was  an  ex 
cellent  fellow,  though  a  "perfect  witch-cat."  It  was 
very  pleasant  and  amusing  to  see  how  quietly  Mary 
took  all  these  demonstrations.  Confident  in  the  good 
heart  that  shone  through  his  extravagances,  and  confident 
in  the  power  of  others  to  see  it,  she  gave  herself  up  to 
the  entertainment  as  if  he  were  a  stranger  to  her.  Some 
times,  indeed,  she  checked  him  with  a  good-natured 
"  Frank  !  "  and  established  herself  as  a  kind  of  regula 
tor,  to  indicate  when  his  mill  was  going  too  fast. 

Dr.  Gilbert  was  amused,  but  Frank  Sargent  had 
other  entertainment  for  him ;  and  long  and  very  inter 
esting  were  his  communications  upon  various  matters  of 
public  interest.  He  talked  of  politics,  of  business,  of 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  355 

religion,  of  literature ;  and  added  more  to  the  doctor's 
stock  of  current  information  than  he  could  have  gathered 
from  all  his  newspapers.  On  the  whole,  the  family  were 
much  pleased  with  the  lover  of  their  friend  Mary.  He 
brought  life  into  so  many  departments  of  their  life,  and 
adapted  himself  so  readily  to  their  tastes  and  tempera 
ments,  that  they  felt  his  presence  to  be  a  sudden  acces 
sion  to  their  wealth.  Mary  relinquished  him  to  them 
in  the  kindness  of  her  heart.  He  was  hers  for  a  life 
time.  She  would  lend  him  to  them  while  she  could. 

The  following  day  was  the  Sabbath — always  a  wel 
come  day  to  Frank  Sargent,  because  it  was  usually  a 
day  of  very  agreeable  business.  At  home,  besides  at 
tending  to  his  own  charge  as  superintendent  of  a  Sabbath- 
school,  he  was  usually  out  at  one  or  more  mission 
schools  during  the  day,  and  joined  with  others  in  seeking 
for  the  neglected  and  uninstructed.  These  things  gave 
him  an  opportunity  to  talk,  and  to  one  who  was  always 
full,  this  was  a  great  privilege. 

It  was  customary  with  the  superintendent  of  the 
Crampton  school  to  invite  every  stranger  who  made  his 
appearance  to  address  the  children.  The  gift  of  public 
speech  was  rare  in  Crampton,  and  a  talking  stranger 
was  a  Godsend.  Accordingly,  when  Frank  Sargent  re 
mained  after  the  benediction  was  pronounced  at  noon,  and 
stood  up,  smiling  pleasantly  upon  the  children  as  they 
gathered  into  the  pews,  the  superintendent  came  to  him, 
and  having  been  introduced  by  Dr.  Gilbert,  requested 
him  to  open  the  school  with  some  "  remarks." 

Very  memorable  were  those  "  remarks,"  made  with 
rare  and  racy  freedom,  for  they  awakened  many  smiles, 
and  were  the  occasion  of  many  tears.  He  told  the 


356 

school  about  the  poor  children  in  New  York — how  he 
had  found  them  in  rags,  and  filth,  and  wretchedness,  and 
washed  their  faces  with  his  own  hands,  and  taught  them 
to  read.  He  told  how  a  sweet  little  girl  had  been  taught 
to  love  her  Saviour,  and  how,  afterwards,  she  had  died 
in  her  little  garret,  and 'said  she  was  going  home  to  her 
Father  in  heaven,  where  they  had  beautiful  carpets  on 
the  floor,  and  red  curtains  at  the  windows,  and  chairs  as 
soft  as  the  grass.  Then  he  told  them  about  a  good  little 
boy  who  said  he  was  one  of  Jesus'  Christ's  little  lambs, 
and  when  he  went  to  heaven  he  was  going  to  have  a  bell  on 
his  neck.  The  first  story  made  the  children  cry,  and  the 
second  one  made  them  smile ;  and  then  Mr.  Frank  Sar 
gent  said  that  all  the  little  children  were  Jesus  Christ's 
lambs,  at  which  one  little  boy  giggled.  Then  the  speaker 
asked  the  boy  what  he  was  laughing  at,  and  the  boy  told 
him  he  laughed  because  his  name  was  Charley  Mutton, 
and  all  the  other  little  boys  called  him  Charley  Lamb. 
Then  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  smiled,  and  the  doctor  and 
Fanny  smiled,  and  all  the  school  came  as  nearly  up  to 
an  outburst  of  mirth  as  they  dared  to. 

Then  the  speaker  told  them  how  so  much  had  been 
accomplished  for  the  poor  children  in  New  York.  It 
was  done  by  co-operation.  Everybody  interested  in  the 
work  did  something  ;  and,  to  show  them  what  miracles 
could  be  wrought  by  co-operation,  he  told  them  a  story 
of  a  man  who  had  no  legs  forming  a  partnership  with  a 
man  who  had  no  arms,  and  both  together  taking  and 
carrying  on  a  farm.  The  man  who  had  no  legs  got  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  man  who  had  no  arms,  and  the  man 
who  had  legs  carried  the  man  who  had  arms  all  about, 
the  latter  sowing  the  grain  and  hoeing  the  vegetables. 


AN   AMEKICAN   STOKY.  357 

and  picking  fruit  from  the  trees.  Neither  could  do 
any  thing  alone,  but  co-operating,  they  were  able  to 
carry  on  a  large  business,  and  made  a  pile  of  money. 
The  vivid  colors  in  which  the  speaker  painted  this  brace 
of  farmers  made  a  decided  impression,  and  awoke  many 
smiles.  But  these  were  banished  by  his  closing  words, 
which  were  solemn,  earnest,  and  touching.  The  children 
had  never  heard  such  talk  before,  and  were  very  mueh 
impressed. 

At  the  conclusion  of  his  "  remarks,"  he  was  invited 
to  instruct  a  class  of  young  women,  and  here  he  became 
so  much  interested  and  absorbed,  that  he  talked  loudly 
enough  to  be  heard  in  all  parts  of  the  house,  and  talked 
quite  beyond  the  tinkling  of  the  little  bell  that  an 
nounced  the  close  of  the  hour. 

On  Fanny's  return,  she  gave  a  glowing  account  of 
Frank's  hit  as  a  speaker  to  Mary,  who  had  remained 
with  her  father.  Mary  received  the  announcement  of 
his  success  with  the  same  quiet  smile  with  which  she  re 
garded  all  his  performances.  Knowing  that  he  did 
strange,  and  often  ludicrous  things,  she  also  knew  that 
his  heart  was  right,  his  apprehensions  keen,  and  his  abil 
ity  equal  to  any  task  he  might  see  fit  to  undertake.  As 
for  the  young  man  himself,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  the  boys  all  about  Crampton  common,  for  a  week 
afterwards,  riding  on  one  another's  shoulders,  and  sowing 
dirt  in  illustration  of  his  illustration  of  co-operation. 
He  also  received  a  well-executed  pencil  drawing,  repre 
senting  his  heroes  of  the  farm,  from  the  hand  of  a  smart 
young  man,  just  home  from  college. 

Mr.  Kilgore  mended  rapidly.  A  week  after  the 
safely  surmounted  crisis  of  his  fever,  he  sat  up  in  his 


358  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

chair  for  an  hour.  But  he  was  not  without  his  mental 
burden.  He  had  regained  possession  of  his  daughter, 
but  it  had  been  done  at  a  great  sacrifice  of  feeling.  For 
once  in  his  life,  he  had  been  conquered.  His  plans  for 
a  splendid  matrimonial  alliance  for  his  daughter  had 
been  thwarted,  and  it  was  a  great  humiliation  for  him  to 
think  of  swallowing  all  his  words,  and  receiving  as  a  son 
the  young  man  whom  he  had  so  thoroughly  hated  and 
persistently  abused.  But  the  step  had  been  taken,  and 
could  not  be  retraced ;  and  his  old  pride,  though  galled 
and  humbled,  came  to  his  aid  at  last.  Could  not  he,  the 
great  Kilgore,  do  as  he  would  with  his  own  ?  If  he  chose 
to  confer  his  daughter  upon  Frank  Sargent,  he  could 
carry  the  matter  through  in  splendid  style,  and  who 
would  presume  to  question  him  ? 

When  he  became  sufficiently  strong,  he  consented  to 
receive  his  future  son-in-law.  He  greeted  him  with  no 
demonstration  of  feeling,  and  Frank  took  the  hint  at 
once.  The  past  was  to  be  buried,  and  not  alluded  to  at 
all.  They  talked  about  business,  and  Frank  was  soon 
running  on  in  his  usual  entertaining  style.  His  inqui 
ries  for  the  old  man's  health  were  made  self-respcctfully, 
but  with  such  a  genuine  interest  that  the  invalid  felt 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  could  not  help  feeling  that  if 
the  young  man  should  wish  he  were  dead,  it  would  be 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

As  the  days  came  and  went,  Frank  became  more 
and  more  the  companion  of  Mr.  Kilgore.  The  attach 
ment  existing  between  the  young  people  was  never  al 
luded  to  upon  either  side.  Frank  dutifully  and  respect, 
fully  assumed  and  performed  the  offices  of  a  son,  but 
neither  asked  questions  nor  made  communications. 


AX  AMEKICAN   STOEY.  359 

Mary,  in  calm  confidence,  was  sure  that  Frank  could 
make  his  way  if  he  had  an  opportunity,  and  never  em 
barrassed  their  intercourse  by  her  presence.  There 
were  abundant  invitations  for  Frank  to  go  fishing,  and 
riding,  and  gunning ;  but  he  sacrificed  every  thing,  for 
the  sake  of  ministering  to  Mr.  Kilgore's  comfort  and 
recovery.  The  old  man  felt,  in  the  depths  of  his  heart, 
that  Mary  had  made  a  good  choice  for  herself  and  for 
him  ;  and  both  Frank  and  she  saw  that  time  alone  was 
needed  for  her  father's  wounded  pride  to  heal,  in  order 
to  reconcile  him  entirely  to  the  match. 

Toward  Dr.  Gilbert,  Arthur  Blague,  and  Fanny, 
Mr.  Kilgore  pursued  the  same  course  that  he  followed 
in  respect  to  Frank  Sargent :  he  ignored  the  past.  The 
somewhat  bitter  passages  that  had  occurred  between 
him  and  them,  individually,  were  never  alluded  to  by 
him.  Each,  in  turn,  had  tried  to  explain,  but  he  would 
hear  nothing.  One  evening,  after  he  had  sufficiently  re 
covered  to  be  able  to  sit  in  his  chair  the  most  of  the 
day,  he  sent  for  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  held  with  him  a  long 
interview,  the  results  of  which  made  themselves  appa 
rent  the  next  day,  when  the  doctor  called  Frank  and 
Mary  into  his  office,  and,  having  closed  the  door,  in 
formed  them  that  it  was  Mr.  Kilgore's  desire  that  they 
should  be  married  before  leaving  Crampton.  Mr.  Kil 
gore  himself  did  not  wish  to  have  any  conversation  with 
them  at  that  time,  nor  at  any  future  time,  on  the  subject. 
He  accepted  the  facts  as  they  existed,  as  facts  for  which 
he  was  not  responsible,  and  with  which  he  saw  fit  not 
to  quarrel. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Kilgore's  wish  regarding  the  mar 
riage  was  known  in  the  family,  all  were  in  a  flutter  of 


360 

excitement — all  but  Mary.  In  her  calm  faith,  she  had 
never  seriously  doubted  that  the  time  would  come  for 
her  union  with  the  man  whom  she  loved.  When  it 
came,  it  did  not  surprise  her.  Nothing  surprises  a  truly 
trusting  heart. 

As  Frank  and  Mary  looked  into  the  future,  beyond 
the  event  which  excited  so  much  interest  in  all  around 
them,  the  first  plan  that  shaped  itself  was  one  for  taking 
Fanny,  with  them  to  New  York.  This  they  talked  over 
at  length,  and  with  this  Mary  ventured  to  approach  her 
father.  He  made  no  objection  to  the  plan — in  reality, 
it  was  a  pleasant  one  to  him.  He  was  anxious  to  see 
his  large  house  populated  once  more — to  hear  again  in 
it  the  sound  of  happy  voices,  and  especially  the  happy 
voices  of  young  women.  He  looked  forward  to  the 
time  when — the  first  questions  and  surprises  over,  and 
the  new  order  of  things  adjusted  to  the  stereotyped  facts 
of  his  business  life — he  could  throw  off  his  reserve,  and 
be  cheerful,  and  even  merry  once  more. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilton  were  called  in  to  a  grand 
council,  Dr.  Gilbert  in  the  chair,  to  assist  in  deciding 
upon  the  character  of  the  coming  wedding.  Mary 
wanted  no  wedding  that  would  not  either  admit  every 
body  or  exclude  everybody ;  and  it  was  determined  at 
last  that  the  ceremony  should  be  performed  in  the 
church,  in  the  morning,  and  that  all  who  should  choose 
to  do  so,  might  call  upon  the  bride  at  the  house  of  Dr. 
Gilbert  afterwards.  This  plan  having  been  definitely 
settled  upon,  was  reported  throughout  the  village 
within  twenty-four  hours.  In  the  mean  time,  Dr.  Gil 
bert  had  consented  to  his  daughter's  visit  to  New  York, 
and  had  secured  a  new  teacher  for  the  centre  school. 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  361 

Fanny  was  in  her  glory.  The  excitement  attending  the 
preparations  for  the  wedding  and  her  journey,  was  de 
lightful.  It  brought  into  operation  her  administrative 
faculties,  and  gave  full  employment  to  all  her  energies. 
Mr.  Kilgore  looked  on  with  admiration.  Her  style  of 
character  was  much  more  to  his  liking  than  that  of  his 
daughter.  It  was  more  after  what  seemed  to  him  the 
true  Kilgore  pattern.  It  was  more  queenly,  more  am 
bitious,  more  exclusive.  In  fact,  Mr.  Kilgore,  as  he 
grew  stronger,  grew  gallant,  and  took  Fanny  into  his 
confidence  and  under  his  patronage,  all  of  which  pleased 
Mary  very  much. 

The  morning  of  the  wedding  came  at  length,  and  it 
found  the  Crampton  church  better  filled  with  an  expec 
tant  throng  than  it  had  been  since  the  memorable  exhi 
bition  of  the  Crampton  Light  Infantry.  It  brought 
forth,  too,  as  on  that  occasion,  a  fine  procession  from 
the  centre  school-house — a  procession  of  Mary  Kilgore's 
pupils,  for  whom  seats  were  reserved  in  front.  The 
celebration  of  a  marriage  within  the  walls  of  the  Cramp- 
ton  church  was  a  great  event — the  first  of  its  kind  ever 
known  in  the  village — and  everybody  was  out. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  Dr.  Gilbert  walked  into  the 
church  with  Aunt  Catharine,  followed  by  the  great  Kil 
gore  with  Fanny  on  his  arm.  Then  came  Mr.  Frank 
Sargent  with  Mary,  the  latter  in  a  gray  travelling  dress, 
and,  following  them,  came  Arthur  Blague  and  his 
mother.  It  was  not  a  very  gay-looking  party,  it  must 
be  confessed,  but,  as  it  came  in  front  of  the  children,  and 
the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  separated  themselves,  and 
walked  before  the  pastor,  Mary  could  not  refrain  from 
looking  out  upon  her  old  charge  with  her  accustomed 
16 


362  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREKR: 

smile.  Instantly  all  the  children  rose  to  their  feet,  and 
stood  while  the  words  were  pronounced  which  made  a 
wife  of  their  old  teacher. 

Mary  could  hardly  wait  to  receive  the  congratula 
tions  of  the  friends  immediately  about  her  before  she 
turned  to  her  children,  and  received  their  kisses.  It 
was  a  very  pretty  sight  indeed — one  which  moistened 
the  eyes  of  the  crowd  of  spectators,  and  upon  which 
even  the  dignified  Mr.  Kilgore  looked  with  a  degree  of 
complacent  satisfaction.  As  for  delighted  Frank  Sar 
gent,  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  away  from  the  touching 
spectacle,  and  finally  seized  and  kissed  half  a  dozen  of 
the  little  girls,  as  a  slight  demonstration  of  the  condition 
of  his  feelings,  at  which  the  audience  laughed,  and  the 
little  boys  clapped  their  hands. 

Mary  had  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  in  getting  out  of 
the  church.  There  were  so  many  to  take  her  hand  and 
to  wish  her  joy,  that  she  was  quite  weary  before  the 
gauntlet  of  the  broad  aisle  was  run.  On  returning  to 
the  house,  the  party  entered  the  parlor,  and  formally 
received  and  entertained  their  friends.  Among  these, 
all  were  astonished  to  see  the  widow  Euggles.  She 
greeted  Mary  with  a  great  deal  of  cordiality,  and  im 
mediately  begged  to  be  introduced  to  her  father.  Him 
she  seized  (metaphorically)  by  the  button,  and  in  her 
own  vulgar  style  told,  so  that  all  around  could  hear,  of 
Mary's  former  connection  with  "  father's  mill."  She 
went  so  far  as  to  express  the  hope  that  Mary  had  laid 
up  a  little  something,  and,  furthermore,  enjoined  it  upon 
Mr.  Kilgore  to  see  that  she  held  it  in  her  own  right ;  so 
that  if  her  husband  should  ever  be  "  took  away,"  she  could 
have  something  to  comfort  her.  She  informed  Mr.  Kil- 


AN    AMERICAN  STOUT.  363 

gore  of  her  trials,  and  particularly  of  her  consolations 
under  the  strokes  of  Providence,  and  was  glad  to  meet 
with  one  who  had  lost  his  "  pardner,"  because  he  could 
feel  for  her. 

At  last,  Dr.  Gilbert  took  pity  on  Mr.  Kilgore,  and 
actually  pulled  Mrs.  Ruggles  away,  to  introduce  her  to 
Mr.  Frank  Sargent,  who  had  previously  begged  the 
privilege  of  disposing  of  her. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joslyn  were  among  those  who  came 
in  to  pay  their  compliments — Mr.  Joslyn  with  his 
hair  very  nicely  braided  over  his  head,  his  arm  dangling 
through  that  of  his  wife,  and  his  heavy  frame  sustained 
by  his  toes,  in  the  apprehension  that  in  some  corner  of 
the  room  there  was  a  baby  asleep.  Mrs.  Joslyn's  face 
was  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  the  unusual  presence 
and  occasion,  and  the  task  of  managing  her  husband ; 
but  she  had  a  few  straightforward  words  of  congratula 
tion  to  say,  and  these  she  said,  while  Mr.  Joslyn  said 
nothing.  As  they  fell  back  before  the  incoming  tide  of 
friends,  Mrs.  Joslyn  encountered  her  daughter  and 
Cheek  in  the  passage.  The  bow  of  her  daughter's  bon 
net  not  being  exactly  what  it  should  be,  she  tied  it 
again  ;  then  took  hold  of  the  front  with  both  hands,  and 
gave  the  wire  a  cleaner  arch ;  and,  after  bestowing  a 
twitch  or  two  upon  the  skirt  of  her  gown,  dismissed 
her  with  the  injunction  to  behave  like  a  woman,  and 
keep  her  mouth  shut. 

Cheek,  since  his  accession  to  the  dignity  of  stage- 
driver,  had  grown  a  little  foppish,  and  affected  gay 
colors  about  his  neck.  A  red-checked  waistcoat  and  a 
sky-blue  cravat  did  flaming  duty  with  a  coat  of  invisible 
green,  which  had  great  square  pocket-lids  on  the  skirts, 


364:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

and  very  large  brass  buttons.  The  moment  Frank  Sar 
gent  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  pair,  and  received  Cheek's 
good-natured  wink  at  a  distance,  he  sprang  to  meet 
them,  and  pulled  them  directly  into  the  centre  of  the 
noisy  group. 

"  Yours  respectfully,"  said  Cheek,  by  way  of  re 
sponse  to  the  bridegroom's  greeting,  and  also  by  way 
of  congratulation.  Then  turning  to  the  bride,  he  gave 
her  his  hand,  and  with  a  bow  which  made  his  square 
coat-tails  stand  out  very  straight,  said,  "  Here's  hop 
ing  !  "  Having  paid  his  own  personal  respects,  he 
waited  until  Mary  had  bestowed  a  kiss  upon  his  "  girl," 
and  then  presented  the  latter  to  Frank  Sargent,  as 
"  The  Aforesaid."  Frank  shook  her  hand  very  cor 
dially,  and  told  her  what  an  excellent  time  he  had  en 
joyed  with  Cheek  on  his  way  to  Crampton.  The  dear 
little  creature  could  do  nothing  but  courtesy,  and  say, 
"  Yes,  sir."  Cheek  looked  on  in  admiration,  and  finally 
beckoned  the  bridegroom  aside.  When  he  had  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  him  into  a  corner,  he  said  quietly, 
with  a  nod  at  "  The  Aforesaid,"  "  What  do  you  think 
of  her?" 

"  She's  a  nice  little  thing,  Cheek,  and  does  you 
honor,"  responded  Frank  Sargent  heartily. 

"  Little  dumpy  about  the  waist  yet,"  said  Cheek, 
"  but  you  know  they  kind  o'  spindle  up  after  a  while." 

"  She's  good  enough  for  anybody,"  said  Frank 
Sargent. 

"  Now  that  ain't  so,"  said  Cheek,  "  and  you  know  it. 
She  will  be,  when  she's  done  ;  but  she  ain't  ripened  off 
yet.  You  saw  her  mother,  didn't  you  ?  Great  woman. 
The  little  one  has  got  her  points,  but  she  wants  age. 


AN  AMEKICAN   STOEY.  365 

I'll  show  you  something  that'll  cure  sore  eyes  at  thirty 
paces,  if  you'll  come  round  in  about  three  years." 

The  "bridegroom  was  much  amused,  for  Cheek  said 
all  this  with  his  eyes  upon  his  hopeful  prize,  scanning 
her  "  points  "  as  critically  as  if  she  were  a  filly  that  he 
was  anxious  to  sell. 

"  There  is  every  thing  in  taking  them  young,"  con 
tinued  Cheek,  "  for  then  they  improve  on  your  hands. 
Now  you've  just  married  a  fmished-up  girl.  I  don't 
s'pose  mine  will  ever  come  up  to  your'n,  but  your'n 
won't  grow  any  better,  and  mine  will.  All  the  fellers 
try  to  run  rigs  on  me,  and  ask  me  how  my  baby  gets 
along,  and  what's  the  price  of  bibs  ;  but  they've  all  got 
mortgages  on  property  that  won't  rise,  and  when  their 
girls  begin  to  get  rings  round  their  eyes,  and  lose  their 
front  teeth,  we'll  see  who'll  talk  about  bibs."  Cheek 
nodded  his  head  very  decidedly,  as  if  his  plan  were 
one  which  did  not  admit  of  serious  question  from  any 
quarter. 

The  crowd  of  friends  was  too  great  to  allow  of  the 
further  extension  of  this  conversation ;  and  for  full  two 
hours  the  parlor  was  the  scene  of  a  social  eddy  in 
Crampton  life,  which  streamed  in  at  one  door,  and  out 
at  another,  until  all  had  paid  their  compliments  to  the 
bridal  pair  and  the  dignified  Mr.  Kilgore. 

It  was  generally  understood  at  what  time  the  party 
were  to  leave,  and  at  length  the  house  was  cleared. 
Of  all  the  observers  of  this  lively  scene,  there  was  no 
one  who  looked  on  with  so  much  sadness  as  Arthur 
Blague.  He  felt  that  he  was  soon  to  be  bereft  of  his 
most  precious  wealth.  He  had  schooled  himself  to  look 
upon  Mary  Kilgore  as  the  possession  of  another ;  so 


366  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

that  his  feelings  were  neither  selfish  nor  mean  ;  but  she 
had  been  so  much  to  him — she  had  inspired  him  with  so 
much  courage,  and  had  led  him  to  the  adoption  of  such 
fresh  and  fruitful  motives  of  life — that  her  departure 
seemed  like  the  setting  of  a  sun — like  the  withdrawal  of 
the  heat  that  warmed  and  the  light  that  cheered  him. 
He  thought  of  the  brilliant  scenes  that  lay  before  the 
retiring  party,  and  the  humdrum,  barren  existence  that 
was  left  to  him,  till  his  own  life  grew  tasteless  and  in 
significant.  Though  pressed  to  remain  at  the  house 
of  Dr.  Gilbert  until  the  bridal  party  should  take  their 
leave,  he  excused  himself,  and  retired  to  his  home. 

The  regular  Crampton  stage  did  not  go  out  that 
morning.  A  wagon  was  despatched  with  the  mail ;  but 
the  coach  and  Cheek  were  detained  as  "  an  extra,"  to 
take  over  the  bridal  party.  Trunks  were  deposited  on 
the  door-steps  of  the  Gilbert  mansion,  busy  feet  tra 
versed  the  house,  and  all  was  excitement.  A  hasty 
lunch  was  taken  by  the  family,  which  was  hardly  con 
cluded  when  Cheek's  horn  sounded  across  the  common, 
with  a  flourish  little  short  of  miraculous,  and  soon  the 
rattle  of  the  wheels  announced  that  the  coach  and  the 
time  for  departure  had  arrived. 

All  went  to  the  door.  Cheek,  out  of  respect  to  the 
party,  had  not  changed  his  clothes,  but  shone  upon  the 
box  like  a  fire,  of  which  his  red  waistcoat  formed  the 
body  of  the  flame,  and  his  sky-blue  cravat  the  smoke. 
Before  descending  from  the  box,  he  removed  his  coat, 
and,  in  obedience  to  his  old  habit,  rolled  up  his  shirt 
sleeves,  as  a  preparation  for  the  labor  of  loading  the 
baggage.  The  last  trunk  and  bandbox  were  at  length  in 
their  places,  and  the  last  strap  was  fastened.  Then  fol- 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  367 

lowed  the  leave-taking,  in  which  everybody  cried,  ex 
cept  Mr.  Kilgore,  who  stood  apart,  and  who,  after  all 
the  others  had  made  their  adieux,  shook  the  hands  of 
Dr.  Gilbert,  Aunt  Catharine,  and  little  Fred,  took  out 
his  big  gold  watch,  looked  around  upon  Crampton  com 
mon,  apparently  to  see  if  he  had  left  any  thing  there,  ex 
amined  the  sky  to  see  whether  the  weather  suited  him, 
then  took  his  seat  in  the  coach  by  the  side  of  Miss 
Fanny  Gilbert,  and  then  said,  "  All  ready." 

Kisses  were  tossed  back  and  forth  as  the  horses  were 
reined  into  the  street,  and  then  there  came  a  loud  crack 
of  the  whip,  and,  following  this,  extravagant  efforts  upon 
the  driver's  horn,  that  awakened  all  the  echoes,  and 
brought  faces  to  all  the  windows  along  the  street. 
Among  the  faces  were  those  of  Arthur  Blague  and  his 
little  brother  Jamie,  the  latter  of  whom  was  in  an. 
ecstasy  of  delight.  Mary  leaned  out  of  the  coach  to  get 
the  last  glimpse  of  the  pair.  As  she  receded,  she  saw 
the  little  boy,  by  a  sudden  movement,  release  himself 
from  his  brother's  grasp,  and  fall  out  of  the  window 
into  the  yard.  She  screamed,  still  gazing,  and  as  she 
turned  a  corner,  she  saw  the  little  one  picked  up  limp 
and  lifeless  ;  and  Arthur  was  left  alone  with  the  great 
trial  out  of  which  he  was  to  work  his  destiny. 


368 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

BEING   A    BRIDGE   LONGER    THAN    THE   VICTOBIA,    AND    HAYING 
ONLY   TEN   PIEES. 

OFTEN,  as  we  move  through  an  interesting  land 
scape,  crowded  with  copse  and  rock  and  forest,  and 
crossed  by  streams  and  strips  of  pasture  and  tilth,  we 
catch  a  glimpse  of  some  green  hill  in  the  far  distance, 
and  forget  the  beauty  which  throngs  the  passage,  in  our 
desire  to  reach  the  eminence  that  overlooks  it,  and  the 
world  of  beauty  in  which  it  lies.  We  long  to  drink,  at 
a  single  draught,  the  nectar  that  hangs  on  bush  and 
rock,  and  vine  and  tree — to  embrace  in  one  emotion  the 
effect  of  that  exquisite  combination  of  light  and  shade, 
of  green  and  gray,  of  hill  and  vale,  of  stone  and  stream, 
that  go  to  form  a  completed  landscape.  We  tire  with 
details  ;  we  seek  for  results. 

As  in  landscapes,  so  in  stories — we  come  to  points, 
sometimes,  when  we  long  to  overleap  the  incidents  of 
the  life  through  which  we  move,  and,  planting  ourselves 
upon  some  sun-crowned  year  that  rises  in  the  distance, 
survey  at  a  glance  the  path  we  have  trod.  We  are  in 


AN    AMERICAN    STORY.  369 

haste  for  events,  and  do  not  care  to  watch  the  machinery 
by  which  they  are  evolved. 

Precisely  at  this  point  has  this  story  now  arrived  ; 
and  in  this  brief  chapter  we  propose  to  take  a  stand 
upon  a  green  hill-top  ten  years  away,  and  thence  look 
backward  upon  the  life  whose  characteristics  and  whose 
issues  have  interested  us  so  deeply. 

We  take  the  ten-years'  flight,  and  here  we  are ! 
How  easy  the  imaginary  passage,  and  how  soft  and 
bright  the  landscape,  as  we  turn  to  gaze  upon  it !  Yet 
these  years  have  been  crowded  to  their  brims,  every 
one,  with  change,  and  their  contents  poured  upon  the 
world ! 

This  is  Crampton !  Would  you  know  it  ?  Ten 
years  have  revolutionized  it.  Within  that  time,  a  track 
of  iron  has  been  laid  along  its  border,  over  which  the 
engine  drags  its  ponderous  burdens.  Even  now,  the 
whistle  sounds,  and  the  people — a  new  and  peculiar 
people — rush  to  catch  the  daily  papers.  Where  once 
stood  the  little  hotel,  so  distinguishing  a  feature  of  the 
social  life  of  the  village,  stands  now  a  large  brick  struc 
ture,  with  a  flag  run  up  from  its  observatory,  and  a 
Chinese  gong  in  the  hall.  Ten  years  ago,  Crampton 
had  but  one  church  ;  now  it  has  five.  The  railroad  has 
introduced  "  the  foreign  element ;  "  and  there  is  a  new 
structure,  with  a  cross  upon  the  top,  as  the  result.  The 
Methodists  and  Baptists  and  Episcopalians  have  all 
built  churches,  for  which  they  are  very  deeply  in  debt, 
and  for  which  "  children  yet  unborn  "  will  be  obliged  to 
pay.  There  are  new  streets  cut  in  all  directions,  and 
there  is  a  flaming  row  of  stores,  in  which  financial  ruin 
is  imminent,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  placards  in  the 
16* 


370 

windows.  One  is  "  selling  off  to  close  the  concern  ;  " 
one  is  "  selling  off  at  less  than  cost ;  "  one  adver 
tises  "  goods  to  be  given  away  ; "  and  another,  after 
denouncing  all  its  competitors  as  "  slow,"  declares  its 
determination  to  undersell  them  to  such  a  degree  as  to 
drive  them  from  the  place,  the  whole  of  them  being, 
even  now,  on  the  verge  of  suicidal  despair.  The  smart 
and  smiling  young  men  behind  the  counters  are  evi 
dently  not  fully  aware  of  the  fate  that  awaits  them,  but 
that  only  makes  the  matter  worse. 

Hucklebury  Run  has  not  been  allowed  to  lie  in 
ruins,  but  has  passed  into  the  hands  of  a  Boston  com 
pany,  and  many  of  the  old  operatives  are  back  in  the 
old  place — the  old  place  made  new  and  comfortable. 
The  widow  Ruggles  still  resides  in  her  little  cottage,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  income  from  her  bank  stock,  which 
has  been  considerably  increased  by  the  amount  saved 
from  the  wreck  of  the  old  proprietor's  fortune.  The 
enterprising  woman  has  failed  in  her  persistent  efforts 
to  secure  a  man  to  take  the  place  of  her  departed 
"  pardner,"  but  is  by  no  means  discouraged. 

Dr.  Gilbert  and  Aunt  Catharine  are  greatly  changed. 
The  little  black  pony  died  years  ago,  and  the  old  gig 
passed  out  of  sight  with  him.  The  rheumatism  has 
dealt  harshly  with  the  old  doctor,  but  has  not  so  se 
verely  injured  his  feelings  as  the  young  physicians, 
assisted  by  certain  homceopathists  and  eclectics,  and 
Thompsonians,  and  Indian  doctors,  who  cut  his  practice 
in  a  great  many  pieces,  and  vex  his  righteous  soul  by 
their  innovations.  Still  he  stumps  about  upon  his 
farm  ;  but  his  hair  is  gray,  and  he  carries  a  cane,  not  as 
a  matter  of  habit,  but  of  necessity.  He  has  fought 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  371 

against  his  calamities  bravely,  and  the  children  will  tell 
you  where  he  has  cut  a  hole  in  the  ice  in  the  winter,  for 
the  bath  by  which  he  has  tried  to  rouse  his  failing  con 
stitution  into  new  vigor.  As  his  strength  has  declined, 
and  his  business  died  away,  he  has  turned  his  thoughts 
more  and  more  upon  his  children,  and  particularly  upon 
his  boy  Fred,  now  a  young  man  and  in  college.  To  see 
him  shine  as  the  leader  of  his  class,  and  the  star  of  his 
pride,  is  now  his  great  ambition.  Through  all  his  boy 
hood  and  young  manhood,  he  has  pushed  this  favorite 
child  to  the  most  exhausting  effort,  and  finds  his  exceed 
ing  great  reward  in  a  degree  of  progress  that  secures 
the  enthusiastic  praise  of  the  college  faculty.  The  let 
ters  which  ho  receives  from  the  college,  he  exhibits  to 
his  old  friends  and  neighbors,  on  all  occasions,  for  he 
carries  them  in  his  pocket  all  the  time. 

Big  Joslyn  has  become  quite  bald,  and  there  is 
no  longer  any  hair  to  braid  upon  his  temples.  His 
children  are  grown  up  around  him.  One  or  two  are 
away  at  school.  Others  are  in  the  employ  of  the  rail 
road  company.  Others  still  are  gone  to  work  upon 
farms,  where  they  are  to  remain  until  twenty-one.  Mr. 
Joslyn  himself  tends  the  switches  at  the  Crampton  sta 
tion,  and,  in  his  movements  among  the  rails,  takes  good 
care  never  to  waken  a  sleeping  locomotive,  always  ris 
ing  to  his  toes  at  the  "  sh-h-h-h  "  of  the  hissing  steam. 
Mrs.  Joslyn  has  become  a  smart  and  well-dressed 
woman,  and  takes  care  of  a  snug  little  house  which  is 
the  envy  of  her  neighbors.  The  family  generally  has 
been  getting  thrifty  in  the  world.  Mr.  Joslyn's. wages 
have  improved,  the  children  are  earning  more  than  the 
cost  of  their  living,  and  a  pair  of  genteel  boarders  oc- 


372 

cupy  a  suite  of  rooms  in  their  modest  dwelling.  These 
latter  are  no  other  than  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas  Lamp- 
son.  Mr.  Lampson  carries  a  gold  watch,  with  a  gold 
chain,  wears  upon  his  bosom  a  diamond  pin,  and  orna 
ments  the  third  finger  of  his  left  hand  with  an 
immense  seal-ring.  Mr.  Lampson  is  "  the  popular 
and  gentlemanly  conductor  of  the  Crampton  and  Lon 
donderry  Railroad,"  and  was  once  known  familiarly  to 
the  reader  as  "  Cheek."  Before  the  dawn  of  this  gentle 
man's  popularity  and  importance,  the  old  sobriquet 
has  gradually  faded  out.  The  president  and  superin 
tendent  of  the  road  call  him  "  Tom,"  but  few  approach 
him  with  so  much  familiarity.  Everybody  likes  him, 
and  everybody  admits  his  claim  to  the  possession  of  the 
handsomest  wife  "  on  the  road."  Mrs.  Lampson  has 
"  ripened  "  according  to  his  expectations.  She  is  now 
twenty-five,  has  been  married  only  two  years,  and  is 
learning  to  play  upon  the  piano.  She  always  goes  out 
to  the  platform  when  the  train  comes  in,  and  the  pas 
sengers  ask  Mr.  Lampson  who  she  is ;  and  he  takes  a 
great  deal  of  pride  in  informing  them  indefinitely,  but 
very  significantly,  that  she  belongs  to  a  man  "  about  his 
size." 

In  that  neat  little  dwelling  across  the  common  still 
reside  Mrs.  Blague  and  her  two  sons,  Arthur  and  Jamie. 
We  hesitate  to  unveil  the  changes  that  have  occurred 
there.  The  widow  has  become  a  shadow  even  of  her 
former  self.  She  takes  a  degree  of  pride  in  Arthur,  but 
leans  upon  him  like  a  child.  His  will  is  her  law,  and 
she  knows  no  other — desires  to  know  no  other.  Ten 
years  of  pain  and  anxiety  and  watching  have  broken  her 
to  the  earth,  though  they  have  strengthened  and  purified 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  373 

her  manly  son.  The  sprightly  child  that  sprang  from 
the  window  when  we  last  saw  him,  has,  by  that  acci 
dent,  become  a  helpless,  emaciated  creature,  without  the 
power  to  speak  a  word  or  move  a  limb.  The  neigh 
bors,  as  they  pass  the  door,  hear  the  sound  of  gurgling, 
painful  breathing — hear  it  at  any  time  in  the  day,  and 
at  any  time  in  the  night — hear  Arthur's  words  of  cheer 
and  endearment — and  they  sigh,  and  say,  "  Poor  boy  ! 
Noble  man  !  "  But  none  go  in  to  see  the  poor  boy  and 
help  the  noble  man.  The  noble  man  does  not  wish  it, 
and  they  shrink  from  the  pain  which  their  sympathy- 
would  excite. 

Still  subordinate,  still  nursing,  still  doing  woman's 
work  !  Still  the  life  of  Arthur  Blague  is  devoted  to  the 
wTeak  and  the  suffering.  His  mates  have  won  their 
early  honors,  established  themselves  in  their  callings 
and  professions,  married  their  wives,  and  still  he  lingers 
behind,  bound  by  the  ties  of  nature  and  Christian  duty 
to  those  he  loves.  Yet  on  the  basis  of  this  self-sacrifice 
has  he  been  building,  almost  unconsciously,  a  character 
so  sound,  so  sweet,  so  symmetrical,  that  every  one  who 
knows  him  regards  him  with  a  tender  respect  that 
verges  upon  veneration.  Days  and  weeks  and  months 
and  years,  has  he  spent  with  the  invalid  brother  on  his 
knee,  and  a  book  in  his  hand.  He  has  seen  no  college  ; 
but  he  is  educated.  He  has  had  no  discipline,  according 
to  the  formularies  of  the  schools ;  but  he  has  a  mind 
which,  slowly  compacted  in  its  powers,  and  trained  to 
labor,  by  necessity,  amid  a  thousand  distractions,  is  the 
marvel  of  all  who  come  into  contact  with  him.  The 
years  as  they  have  passed  over  him  have  added  to  his 
growth.  Patiently  doing  his  daily  duty,  and  accom- 


374 

plishing  his  daily  work,  he  has  left  results  in  the  hand 
of  his  Master,  and  waited  for  the  mission  toward  which 
he  has  felt  for  many  years  that  his  discipline  was  lead 
ing  him. 

Since  first,  under  the  influence  of  the  good  angel 
whom  Providence  brought  into  his  mother's  dwell 
ing,  he  devoted  himself  to  Heaven,  he  has  entertained 
the  desire  to  preach  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ — the 
noblest  and  most  glorious  function  of  a  consecrated 
human  life.  This  desire  shaped  itself,  as  time  passed 
on,  into  determination,  and  determination  was  merged 
at  length  into  definite  project.  He  has  seen  no  theo 
logical  school ;  he  has  won  no  laurels ;  he  has  embraced 
no  system.  With  him,  Christianity  is  a  life.  It  has 
grown  up  in  him,  it  has  possessed  him.  In  daily  study 
of  the  Bible,  and  daily  contact  with  human  want,  as  seen 
in  his  own  life  and  in  the  life  around  him,  he  has  learned 
the  secret  of  religion,  and  the  power  of  the  sacred  office 
he  has  chosen.  He  has  learned  that  the  power  of 
preaching  resides  not  in  the  defence  of  creeds  and  the 
maintenance  of  dogmas,  but  in  the  presentation  of  mo 
tives  to  purity,  and  truth,  and  self-abnegation.  He  has 
learned  that  the  office  of  Christianity  is  to  import 
divine  life  into  human  life  ;  and,  as  a  minister  of  Chris 
tianity,  he  has  learned  that  sympathy  with  the  suffering, 
and  service  for  the  weak,  and  knowledge  and  love  of  the 
common  human  life  that  surrounds  him,  place  him 
where  he  can  deal  out  the  Bread  of  Life  as  it  is  needed, 
to  hearts  that  recognize  his  credentials.  With  a  heart 
full  of  charity,  and  with  sympathies  that  embrace  all 
the  forms  of  humanity  around  him — sympathies  won  by 
participation  in  their  trials — every  word  that  falls  from 


AX   AMERICAN   STOKY.  375 

his  lips  bears  the  stamp  of  sincerity,  and  is  redolent  of 
the  true  life  of  which  it  is  the  issue. 

Already  is  Arthur  Blague  licensed  to  preach.  Al 
ready  has  he  preached  in  Crampton.  Already  is  he 
talked  about  in  vacant  parishes,  as  the  most  promising 
man  of  the  region.  But  still  he  lingers  at  home.  His 
work  is  not  done  there  yet ;  and  his  first  duty  is  for 
those  who  are  in  his  care.  The  feeble  mother  is  to  be 
supported,  and  the  poor,  misshapen  brother  is  to  be  at 
tended.  Day  and  night  he  watches,  yet  when  he  walks 
abroad,  the  smile  of  a  heart  at  peace  with  itself,  with 
God,  and  with  the  world,  sits  upon  his  countenance. 
Up  through  contumely  and  suffering  and  disappoint 
ment,  this  vigorous  life  has  pushed  its  way,  and  they 
have  fallen  to  its  feet  and  fed  its  growth ;  and  hence 
forth  there  is  nothing  in  contumely  and  suffering  and 
disappointment  to  do  it  harm.  Whatever  of  base  ma 
terial  this  life  touches,  it  transforms  into  nutriment,  and 
assimilates  to  the  elements  of  its  own  vitality. 

If  we  look  in  upon  a  New  York  household,  situated 
in  the  most  opulent  and  fashionable  quarter  of  the  city, 
we  shall  find  in  the  brown-stone  dwelling  of  Mr.  Kilgore 
not  only  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  and  his  wife,  but  three 
beautiful  children,  who  cling  to  their  grandfather's  knee, 
or  engage  in  rare  frolics  with  their  still  boyish  father ; 
while  the  sweet  mother,  to  whom  maternity,  and  a  sat 
isfied  love,  have  only  added  a  broader,  deeper,  and  ten 
derer  charm,  looks  on  and  smiles  in  her  old  delightful 
way.  Nominally,  Mr.  Kilgore  is  still  at  the  head  of  his 
business.  He  has  the  seat  of  honor  in  the  counting- 
room,  and  to  him,  in  terms  of  respect,  Mr.  Frank  Sar 
gent,  who  is  his  partner  as  well  as  his  son,  always  ap- 


376  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

peals  ;  and  Mr.  Kilgore  imagines  that  he  manages  every 
thing  as  in  the  old  times,  when  he  tells  his  son  to  do 
just  as  he  thinks  best.  He  walks  back  and  forth  to  his 
place  of  business,  when  he  does  not  ride,  leaning  upon 
Frank  Sargent's  arm.  Not  a  word  about  the  past  has 
ever  been  exchanged  between  them  ;  but  gradually,  by 
respectful  assiduity,  has  the  young  man  won  upon  the 
old  man,  until  he  has  become  the  very  staff  of  his  life. 
The  new  blood  introduced  into  the  firm  has  increased 
its  business,  and  all  are  very  prosperous. 

In  a  little  recess,  apart  from  these,  sits  a  queenly 
young  woman  with  a  pile  of  newspapers  and  periodicals 
in  her  lap — Miss  Fanny  Gilbert — whom  ten  years  have 
lifted  into  the  grand  beauty  and  maturity  of  twenty- 
seven.     The  broad  plaits  of  dark  hair  sweep  back  from 
her  brow,  and  her  full  form  is  rich  with  the  blood  of 
womanhood.     She  sees  nothing  of  the  pleasant  family 
group  upon  which  the  young  mother  is  gazing  so  hap 
pily  and  contentedly.      She  does   not  hear  the  voices 
of  the  children ;    for  before  her  lie  the  critiques  upon 
her  last  book,  which,  in  memory  of  her  publisher's  old 
suggestion,   she   has    entitled    "  Rhododendron."      She 
has  mingled  with  life.     She  has  patiently  waited  until, 
in  the  strength  of  her  powers,  she  has  felt  competent  to 
make  the  trial  which  should  decide  her  fate  as  an  author 
ess.     She  has  tried,  and  has  abundantly  and  gloriously 
succeeded.     She  takes  up  one  paper  after  another,  and 
all  are  crowded  with  praise.     Beauties  are  indicated 
that  she  had  not  even  suspected.     Quotations  are  made, 
which,  in  the  light  of  popular  appreciation,  glow  with 
new  meaning  to  her.     Her  long-thirsting  heart  is  sur 
feited  with  praise.     She  is  famous — she  is  a  notoriety. 


AN  AMEKICAN   STOEY.  377 

She  knows  that  in  twenty  thousand  homes  "  Bhododen- 
clron "  is  passed  impatiently  from  hand  to  hand,  and 
that  in  twenty  thousand  circles  her  name  is  spoken. 
Every  mail  brings  in  applications  for  her  autograph. 
Parties  are  made  by  lion-lovers,  where  she  may  be  ex 
hibited.  She  is  gazed  at  in  church ;  she  is  pointed  at  in 
the  street ;  clerks  whisper  her  name  to  one  another  when 
ever  she  enters  a  shop ;  her  name  and  praise  are  the 
current  change  of  social  life. 

Miss  Fanny  Gilbert  gathers  her  papers  and  pamph 
lets  in  her  hand  with  a  sigh ;  and,  bidding  the  family 
group  a  good  evening,  ascends  to  her  chamber.  She 
throws  open  the  blinds  of  her  window,  and  looks  out 
upon  the  street.  Carriages  with  happy  freights  of  men 
and  women  are  rolling  homeward  from  their  twilight 
drives.  Lovers  are  loitering  arm  in  arm  along  the  side 
walks.  She  looks  abroad  over  the  city,  and  thinks  that 
in  multitudes  of  dwellings  "Rhododendron"  is  being 
read — that  thousands  are  speaking  her  name  with  praise, 
and  that  no  one  of  all  those  thousands  loves  her.  She 
feels,  in  her  innermost  consciousness,  that  she  has  drunk 
every  sweet  that  popular  praise  can  give  her — honest, 
high-flavored,  redundant  praise — yet  her  heart  yearns 
toward  some  unattainable  good — yearns,  and  is  unsatis 
fied.  The  fruit,  that  shone  like  gold  high  up  upon  the 
boughs,  is  plucked  at  last,  but  it  turns  to  ashes  upon 
her  tongue. 

She  looks  back  upon  the  last  ten  years  of  her  life, 
and  traces  in  memory  the  outlines  of  her  career.  She 
has  moved  in  fashionable  circles  ;  has  been  courted  and 
admired  as  a  brilliant  woman ;  she  has  clung  to  the 
home  of  her  New  York  friends,  and  been  rather  a  visitor 


378  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

than  a  resident  of  her  own  ;  she  has  sought  for  admira 
tion,  and,  with  it,  has  won  the  ill-will  of  her  own  sex  ; 
she  has  imperiously  compelled  the  attentions  of  men 
who  were  afraid  of  her ;  she  has  been  received  as  a  belle 
in  gay  saloons,  and  won  a  multitude  of  heartless  con 
quests  ;  yet,  in  all  this  time,  among  all  favoring  circum 
stances,  no  honest  man  has  come  to  her  with  a  modest 
confession  of  love,  and  a  manly  offer  of  his  hand. 

As  she  thinks  of  all  this,  and  of  the  sorry  results 
that  attend  the  perfect  triumph  of  her  plans,  there  come 
back  to  her  words  spoken  by  Mary  Kilgore  years  and 
years  ago — "  Miss  Gilbert,  the  time  will  come  when 
even  one  soul  will  be  more  than  all  the  world  to  you — 
when  you  would  give  all  the  praises  of  the  world's  thou 
sand  millions — when  you  would  give  the  sun,  moon,  and 
stars,  if  they  were  yours,  to  monopolize  the  admiration, 
the  love,  and  the  praise  of  one  man."  Then  she  thinks 
of  those  further  words — "  The  great  world  is  fickle,  and 
must  be  so.  It  lifts  its  idols  to  their  pedestals,  and 
worships  them  for  an  hour ;  then  kicks  them  off,  and 
grinds  them  into  ruin,  that  other  and  fresher  objects  of 
worship  may  take  their  places."  She  sees  herself  the 
idol  of  the  hour,  and  feels  in  her  sad  and  sickening  soul, 
that  in  a  year  her  name  will  begin  to  vanish  from  the 
public  mind,  and  another  name  will  be  uppermost. 
The  prize  so  long  toiled  for  and  waited  for,  not  only 
fails  to  content  her  now,  but  melts  away,  even  in  her 
hands,  and  passes  to  others. 

Never  in  her  life  has  Fanny  Gilbert  felt  so  lonely 
as  now.  The  triumph  of  her  life  is  the  great  defeat  of 
her  life.  She  has  achieved  all  she  has  labored  for,  and 
gained  nothing  that  she  really  desired.  She  looks  for- 


AN  AMEKICAN   STORY.  379 

ward,  and  her  life  is  a  blank.  How  can  it  be  filled  ? 
"What  shall  she  labor  for  hereafter  1  Is  her  life  to  be  a 
waste  1  Is  this  longing  for  some  satisfying  good  forever 
to  remain  unrealized  ?  Ah  !  how  the  gray,  fixed  eyes 
grow  soft  and  blue  once  more !  How  the  woman's 
nature,  kept  so  long  in  abeyance,  asserts  itself!  How 
ambition  fades  away,  and  love  of  freedom  dies  in  the 
desire  for  bondage,  and  self-sufficient  independence  longs 
to  lean  upon,  and  hide  its  head,  in  some  great  nature  ! 
She  begins  to  comprehend  the  magnitude  of  a  manly 
soul,  and  the  worth  of  a  permanent,  never-dying  affec 
tion  that  survives  all  changes,  and  blossoms  sweetest 
when  the  fickle  world  frowns  darkest.  She  gets  a 
glimpse  of  that  world  of  the  affections  in  which  one 
heart  outgrows  a  world  and  outweighs  a  universe. 

The  newspapers  and  reviews  fall  from  her  hands. 
They  have  ceased,  for  the  time  at  least,  to  be  of  value. 
She  descends  the  stairs  again,  and,  in  her  altered  mood, 
the  queenly  Fanny  seats  herself  upon  a  bench  by  the 
side  of  Mary,  and  lays  her  head  upon  her  lap.  She 
comes  back  to  her  whose  life  has  been  a  daily  lesson  of 
satisfied  love  and  Christian  duty.  The  children  are 
gone  to  bed.  Mr.  Kilgore  has  retired  to  his  room,  and 
Mr.  Frank  Sargent  is  out  upon  an  errand.  Mary  says 
not  a  word,  but  leans  over  and  kisses  Miss  Gilbert's 
cheek,  and  is  startled  to  find  tears  upon  it.  Then  they 
rise,  and,  with  their  arms  around  each  other,  as  in  the 
old  times  in  Mary's  little  chamber  in  Crampton,  they 
walk  the  spacious  parlor  and  talk.  Somehow,  in  this 
embrace  and  the  interchanges  of  affection  that  accom 
pany  it,  Fanny  is  soothed,  and  she  retires  to  her  bed  at 


380 

last,  thinking  that  there  is  something  left  to  live  for, 
after  all. 

If  we  walk  down  Broadway,  where  the  crowd  is 
thickest  and  the  Babel  voices  are  loudest,  we  shall,  in 
passing  a  certain  door,  hear  a  loud,  harsh  voice,  going 
on  in  a  sing-song,  professional  way — uttering  something, 
we  know  not  what — a  coarse  "  blab-blab-blab,"  that  ar 
rests  us,  because  we  imagine  we  have  heard  the  voice 
before.  We  look  in,  and  u  square,  red-faced  man  stands 
upon  a  bench  behind  a  counter,  in  a  little  box  of  a  room 
that  is  large  enough  to  contain  hardly  more  than  the 
half-dozen  loafers  assembled  around  the  speaker.  In 
one  hand  the  master  of  ceremonies  holds  elevated  a 
little  gavel,  and  in  the  other  a  showy  gold  watch,  which 
he  is  making  extraordinary  efforts  to  dispose  of  at  auc-' 
tion.  He  engages  our  attention  and  addresses  himself 
to  us ;  and,  as  we  catch  the  wink  of  his  eye,  and  read 
the  puffy  outlines  of  his  brazen  face,  we  recognize  our 
old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Dan  Buck — the  most  notorious 
Peter  Funk  in  the  city. 

As  we  do  not  care  to  renew  our  acquaintance  with 
the  reprobate,  we  turn  and  retrace  our  steps.  The 
hotels  and  saloons  are  ablaze  with  light,  and  here  and 
there  we  meet  the  painted  creatures  that  prowl  for  prey 
at  this  hour.  On  a  corner,  under  the  light  of  a  street- 
lamp,  we  see  one  of  these,  chatting  with  two  or  three 
sailors.  She  is  intoxicated,  and  is  saying  that  which 
makes  her  brutal  audience  laugh.  As  we  come  to 
where  the  light  falls  full  upon  her  face,  we  behold  the 
wreck  of  what  was  once  the  pride  of  the  old  proprietor 
of  Hucklebury  Run.  Poor  Leonora  ! 

Do  you  care  to  go  back  to  the  country  and  look 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  381 

further  ?  We  have  met  others,  but  they  have  little  in 
terest  for  us.  Rev.  Dr.  Bloomer  has  been  "  settled " 
three  times  since  we  saw  him,  but  that  is  not  remark 
able.  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter  has  injured  his  voice,  and  be 
come  an  agent  for  a  society  which  he  started  himself, 
and  which  contemplates  nothing  less  than  the  restoration 
of  the  Jews  to  Jerusalem.  In  this  way  he  proposes  to 
usher  in  the  millennium.  Thus  far,  he  has  only  been 
able  to  support  himself  upon  his  collections,  but  thinks 
there  is  "  great  encouragement  for  prayer."  Rev.  J. 
Desilver  Newman  is  not  yet  married.  He  has  always 
been  a  beau,  but  somehow  none  of  the  young  women 
love  him.  He  has  the  name  of  being  a  fortune-hunter, 
so  that  all  the  rich  shun  him  from  fear,  and  the  poor 
from  spite.  He  dresses  very  well  indeed,  and  is  sup 
posed  to  be  vain. 

Thus  we  have  our  characters  again.  Some  of  them 
we  have  seen  for  the  last  time,  and  we  bid  them  fare 
well  without  regret,  glad  to  drop  the  burden,  and  com 
mune  alone  with  those  whom  we  love. 


382 


•iiJJvT    gflOi-  •'*    19^ 

CHAPTEE  XXII. 


MISS  GILBERT  GIVES  AND  EECEIVES  VEEY  DECIDED  IMPRESSIONS. 

TO  II 

MR.  KILGORE'S  carriage  stands  before  Mr.  Kilgore's 
door.  There  are  affectionate  leave-takings  in  Mr.  Kil 
gore's  hall.  Miss  Fanny  Gilbert,  in  her  travelling  dress, 
is  kissing  her  farewells  upon  the  rosy  lips  of  Mary's 
little  ones,  and  shedding  tears  as  she  parts  from  their 
mother.  Mr.  Kilgore,  in  a  fit  of  gallantry,  claims  a 
kiss  for  himself,  which  Miss  Gilbert  not  unwillingly 
accords  to  him.  The  trunks  have  already  been  sent  to 
the  boat,  and  Frank  Sargent  gives  the  young  woman 
his  arm,  and  they  descend  to  the  street.  They  take 
their  seats,  the  steps  are  put  up,  handkerchiefs  are  waved 
as  telegraphs  of  affection  by  the  separated  groups,  and 
the  carriage  rolls  off  down  the  street,  and  turns  a  corner, 
and  is  lost  in  the  din  and  whirl  of  the  great  city. 

After  the  publication  of  "  Rhododendron,"  and  the 
discovery  on  the  part  of  Fanny  that  there  was  no  satis 
faction  in  her  new  fame,  she  began  to  pine  for  the  old 
faces.  She  was  tired  for  the  first  time  of  her  New  York 
life.  Its  round  of  gayety,  its  excitements,  its  pursuit  of 
admiration,  became  a  weariness  to  her.  She  felt  self- 
condemned  for  so  long  forsaking  her  father,  and  for 


AN   AMEEICAN   STOKY.  383 

taking  so  little  interest  in  her  brother  Fred.  Especially, 
now  that  she  had  achieved  her  objects,  did  she  desire  to 
taste  the  love  of  those  who  took  pride  in  her.  If  they 
would  only  love  her  better  for  her  fame,  it  would  do 
her  good.  Her  heart  craved  love  now.  This  she  must 
have,  or  life  would  lose  all  its  meaning  to  her.  She 
turned  her  back  on  her  New  York  associations  with 
little  pain,  anxious  only,  in  her  altered  feelings,  to  nestle 
once  more  at  the  heart  of  home. 

There  was  another  event  that  hastened  her  departure. 
Her  brother  was  soon  to  graduate,  and  he  had  already 
received  the  honor  of  the  highest  appointment  in  his 
class.  This  honor  had  always  been  accorded  to  him  by 
the  students  themselves ;  so,  when  he  received  it,  there 
was  no  surprise.  Dr.  Gilbert  had  written  to  his  daugh 
ter  a  glowing  account  of  Fred's  progress,  and  concluded 
with  an  earnest  request  that  she  would  return  and  wit 
ness  the  coronation  of  his  long-cherished  hope.  There 
was  something  in  her  father's  exclusive  devotion  to  his 
son  that  piqued  the  daughter,  but  she  felt,  in  her  con 
science,  that  he  had  treated  her  quite  as  well  as  she  had 
treated  him.  There  was  only  a  passing  allusion  to  her 
new  book  in  the  letter,  and  this  half-offended  her ;  but 
she  determined  to  return,  and  to  try  Crampton  life 
once  more. 

The  ten  years  that  had  matured  her  had  built  rail 
roads,  and  her  passage  homeward  was  not  the  painful 
and  tedious  one  of  former  years.  Coffee  in  New  York 
and  tea  in  Crampton,  on  the  same  day,  did  not  involve 
great  fatigue ;  and  it  was  hardly  past  mid-afternoon  when 
Miss  Gilbert  made  her  last  change  of  cars,  and  found 
herself  upon  a  train  of  the  Crampton  and  Londonderry 


384:  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEE: 

Kailroad,  in  the  care  of  "  the  popular  and  gentlemanly 
conductor,"  Mr.  Thomas  Lampson.  As  Mr.  Lampson 
came  along  to  collect  the  tickets,  he  recognized  Miss 
Gilbert  by  a  slight  touch  of  the  forefinger  upon  the  very 
small  visor  of  his  blue  cap,  and  a  smile  that  illuminated 
his  whole  face. 

"  Why,  Cheek  !     Is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  Fanny,  'tis.  Glad  to  see  you.  How  have 
you  been  ?  "  and  Cheek  took  Miss  Gilbert's  hand,  and 
shook  it  as  if  it  were  a  wild  animal  that  he  wanted  to 
shake  the  life  out  of.  "  Back  in  a  minute,"  said  he,  as 
he  passed  along,  and  shouted  "  Tickets  !  "  in  his  profes 
sional  way. 

Now,  Miss  Fanny  Gilbert  was  slightly  shocked  by 
this  familiarity ;  but  her  joy  at  seeing  an  old  face  had 
betrayed  her  into  undue  cordiality,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  abide  the  consequences.  She  was  shocked  but  not 
displeased.  There  was  genuine  friendship  in  that 
shake  of  the  hand — a  personal  interest  beyond  the  desire 
to  see  and  speak  to  a  notoriety.  So  when  Mr.  Thomas 
Lampson  came  back,  shuffling  his  tickets  in  his  hand,  in 
a  way  that  showed  his  familiarity  with  "  old  sledge," 
and  touched  his  visor  again  with  his  forefinger,  she 
made  a  place  for  him  upon  her  own  seat,  and  the  con 
ductor  and  the  authoress  were  soon  engaged  in  conver 
sation. 

"  I've  read  Rhody,"  said  Mr.  Lampson,  "  and  it's  a 
tall  thing." 

"  You  mean  Rhododendron  ?  "  said  Miss  Gilbert, 
with  a  smile. 

"  Right  again,"  responded  the  conductor,  rasping  his 
thumb-nail  across  the  end  of  his  package  of  tickets. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  385 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  like  it,"'  said  Miss  Gilbert. 

"  Well,  I  do  like  it— I  like  it  first-rate.  It's  a  tall 
thing — it's  a  trump.  Yes,  I  like  it  first-rate.  I  vow,  I 
wonder  where  you  picked  it  all  up.  I  told  my  wife  it 
was  the  strangest  thing  how  a  woman  could  spin  such  a 
story  right  out  of  her  head,  and  make  every  thing  come 
in  right  and  come  out  right.  She  says  it  only  happened 
so ;  but  I  know  better.  Now,  how — how  d'ye  go  to 
work  to  begin  ?  I  couldn't  any  more  do  it  than  I  could 
— a — a — well,  what's  the  use  talking  1 " 

Miss  Gilbert  was  much  amused  by  this  humble 
tribute  to  her  transcendent  powers,  and  simply  replied 
that  it  was  easy  enough  to  write  a  novel  when  one 
knew  how. 

"  After  all,"  continued  Mr.  Lampson,  "  we  don't 
care  half  so  much  about  the  book  up  here  in  Crampton 
as  we  do  about  you.  I  tell  you  we  feel  pretty  crank 
about  having  a  book-writer  in  Crampton.  The  fact  is, 
Miss  Gilbert,  that  we  are  just  about  as  proud  of  you  as 
if  we  owned  you,  and  when  we  see  the  papers  talking 
about  you,  and  making  a  great  fuss  about  your  book, 
we  just  say  to  ourselves  :  '  That's  a  woman  we  raised. 
It  takes  Crampton  to  set  the  world  going.'  Now  I 
don't  s'pose  you  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing,  and,  very 
likely,  it's  ridiculous  ;  but  I'm  just  as  proud  of  you — I 
am,  upon  my  word — as  if  I  had  a  mortgage  on  you." 

Fanny  Gilbert  smiled,  but  her  lip  quivered,  and  she 
turned  her  head  toward  the  window,  while  two  big  tears 
formed  in  her  eyes,  and  dropped  from  her  cheek.  There 
was  something  in  this  simple  praise  that  touched  her 
more  than  all  the  reviews  she  had  read. 

Still  Mr.  Thomas  Lampson,  in  the  abundance  of  his 
17 


386  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

genial  nature,  went  on.  "  I  s'pose  you've  been  living 
among  grand  folks  down  to  the  city,  and  think  Cramp- 
ton  people  are  green ;  but  they  don't  care  half  so  much 
about  you  there  as  we  do,  and  it  kind  o'  seems  to  me 
that  if  I  could  write  a  book  that  would  make  my  own 
folks  happy,  it  would  do  me  more  good  than  it  would 
to  be  purred  over  by  a  snarl  of  people  that  didn't  care 
an/  thing  about  me." 

"  You  are  right — entirely  right,"  responded  Miss 
Gilbert,  emphatically. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  am,"  said  the  conductor.  "  I  know 
how  it  is  with  me,  now.  You  couldn't  hire  me  to  go 
away  from  Crampton,  for  I  was  raised  here,  and  every 
body  knows  me,  and  everybody  is  glad  to  see  me  get 
along.  If  I  was  to  go  on  to  another  road,  I  should  be 
like  any  other  conductor ;  not  but  what  I  could  make 
friends,  but  I  shouldn't  care  what  they  said  about  me. 
Now,  when  a  feller  that  has  always  known  me  comes 
along,  and  slaps  me  on  the  shoulder,  kind  o'  familiar, 
and  says,  *  Hullo  !  Tom  ;  what's  the  state  of  your 
vitals  ? '  I  know  what  it  means,  and  it  makes  me  feel 
good  all  over.  I  s'pose  all  of  us  have  a  kind  of  hanker 
ing  after  people's  good  words  ;  but  I  tell  you  it  makes 
a  mighty  sight  of  difference  with  me  who  gets  'em  off. 
When  that  little  wife  of  mine  says,  *  Tom,  you're  a 
good  feller,  God  bless  you,'  it  goes  right  in  where  I  live. 
Well,  it  does  !  O  Lord  !  what's  the  use  talking  ?  " 

The  concluding  exclamation  of  the  conductor's  little 
speech  was  produced  by  his  finding  Miss  Gilbert's  eyes 
fastened  full  upon  him,  and  an  indistinct  apprehension 
that  he  was  getting  silly. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  wife,"  said  Miss  Gilbert. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOEY.  387 

"  Oh !  shoh !  you  don't  want  to  hear  any  thing  about 
her." 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  replied  Fanny,  with  a  heartiness  that 
the  conductor  felt  to  be  genuine. 

"  Well,  you  must  see  her,  and  make  up  your  own 
mind  about  her.  All  I  can  say  is,  she  suits  me.  I  tell 
you,"  and  the  conductor  lowered  his  voice  to  an  exceed 
ingly  confidential  tone,  "  we  have  mighty  good  times. 
When  I  am  through  my  trips  at  night,  and  we  get  into 
our  room  together,  and  the  curtains  are  down,  and  no 
body  round  to  bother,  I  look  at  her  sometimes  by  the 
hour  when  she  sits  sewing,  and  I  say  to  myself,  t  Tom 
Lampson,  that  property  is  yours.  That  little  live 
woman  thinks  more  of  you  than  she  does  of  all  creation 
besides.  You're  a  king,  Tom ! '  Oh !  I  tell  you  I 
have  seen  that  little  room  grow  and  grow,  till  all  the 
world  outside  looked  mighty  small — so  small,  that  I 
wouldn't  give  the  skip  of  a  tree-toad  for  the  whole  of  it. 
Now,  you've  had  good  luck,  and  done  a  splendid  thing, 
and  everybody's  talking  about  you,  and  I  s'pose  you 
take  real  solid  comfort  in  it ;  but  if  I'd  got  to  choose 
between  writing  Bhody,  and  owning  that  little  woman 
at  home,  I  should  say — oh  !  well — what's  the  use  talk 
ing  !  We  are  different,  you  know.  One  has  his  likes, 
and  another  has  his  likes,  and  what  is  one  man's  meat  is 
another  man's  poison,  and  so  it  goes." 

Here  the  conductor  rose  to  his  feet,  gave  a  sharp 
scrape  upon  the  end  of  his  package  of  tickets,  and 
shouted  "  Littleton  !  " 

Fanny  Gilbert  felt  that  she  was  indeed  approaching 
home,  but  home,  with  all  its  newly-awakened  charms, 
did  not  interest  her  so  deeply  as  the  conversation  she 


388 

had  had  with  the  simple-hearted  Tom  Lampson.  She 
had  been  weighing  vital  values  in  new  scales.  Now 
that  her  long  hallucination  relating  to  the  value  of  popu 
larity  and  fame  was  dissolved,  her  mind  was  open  to 
the  reception  of  truth — nay,  she  was  thirsty  for  truth, 
and  was  ready  to  drink  it  from  the  humblest  fountains. 
She  comprehended  what  the  honest  conductor  meant 
when  he  told  her  that  his  wife's  praise  "  went  right  in 
wrhere  he  lived ; "  for  she  felt  that  the  praise  she  had 
sought  for  and  found  did  not  go  in  where  she  lived.  It 
did  not  touch  the  deep  places  of  her  life. 

There  is  never  a  train  of  cars  with  a  notoriety  upon 
it  whom  somebody  does  not  detect ;  and,  entirely  with 
out  Miss  Gilbert's  consciousness,  it  became  known  to  all 
upon  the  train  that  the  writer  of  "  Rhododendron  " — 
old  Dr.  Gilbert's  famous  daughter — had  been  enjoying 
a  cosy  chat  with  the  conductor.  On  the  arrival  of  the 
train  at  Littleton,  it  was  whispered  upon  the  platform 
that  Miss  Gilbert  was  in  a  certain  car.  The  train 
paused  for  some  minutes,  as  it  was  an  important  sta 
tion,  and  at  length  Fanny  became  a\vare  that  curious 
eyes  were  looking  at  her,  not  only  from  the  seats 
around,  but  from  the  platform  outside.  Young  men 
with  canes  in  their  hands  and  cigars  in  their  mouths  loi 
tered  by  with  aflected  carelessness,  and  gave  her  a 
brazen  stare ;  and  others  stood  at  a  distance  and  made 
their  comments.  Straight  out  of  her  woman's  nature 
there  sprang  a  sense  of  shame  and  indignation,  and  by 
almost  an  involuntary  movement  she  drew  her  veil 
down  before  her  face. 

Yet  precisely  this  notoriety  had  she  sought.  Not  a 
page  of  "  Rhododendron  "  had  been  written  in  which 


AN   AMEKICAN   STOKY.  389 

she  had  not  indulged  in  dreams  of  this  kind  of  reward. 
Nay,  she  had  imagined  herself  in  precisely  these  circum 
stances,  with  assumed  unconsciousness  receiving  the 
homage  of  the  curious  crowd.  Once  behind  her  veil,  she 
analyzed  her  feelings.  Having  weighed  the  value  of  her 
newly-found  fame  with  relation  to  her  truer  life,  it 
became  in  a  degree  offensive  to  her.  The  moment  the 
woman's  heart  within  her  became  dominant,  she  shrank 
from  the  demonstrations  which  her  long-sought  position 
so  naturally  evoked.  Those  curious  eyes  invaded  the 
sanctity  of  her  womanhood.  She  felt  them  as  a  degra 
dation. 

The  whistle  sounded,  the  bell  rang,  and  the  train 
moved  on.  Tom  Lampson  hurried  through  and  col 
lected  his  tickets,  and  then  respectfully  resumed  his  seat 
by  the  side  of  Miss  Gilbert.  "  I  s'pose  you  hear  all  the 
news  from  Crampton  ?  "  said  the  conductor,  interrog 
atively. 

"  I  hear  very  little,"  replied  Miss  Gilbert. 

"  Mr.  Blague  has  had  a  pretty  hard  life  of  it,"  said 
her  interlocutor. 

"  I  suppose  he  has ;  tell  me  what  you  know  about 
him." 

"  Well,  he  sticks  to  that  little  boy  as  if  he  were  his 
mother ;  and  he  has  done  it  for  years  and  years.  There 
isn't  another  man  in  the  world  that  would  do  as  he  has 
done ;  yet  he  doesn't  seem  to  mind  it,  but  keeps  right 
along.  "Well,  there's  no  use  talking,  he's  a  great  man, 
and  is  bound  to  make  his  mark.  I've  known  Arthur 
Blague  a  good  while,  and  I  used  to  be  kind  of  intimate 
with  him  you  know,  but  he's  got  ahead  of  my  time. 
Now  I  think  I  don't  know  any  thing,  and  ain't  anybody, 


390  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREEK: 

when  he's  round — if  you  know  what  sort  of  a  feeling 
that  is.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  very  good  man,  you 
know,  and  I'm  always  spilling  my  nonsense  around ; 
but  I  never  see  that  man  walking  through  the  street,  so 
sort  o'  splendid,  and  kind,  and  good,  but  what  I  think 
of  Jesus  Christ.  I  vow  I  never  do.  Now  that's  a  fact." 

"  I  have  been  told  that  he  has  commenced  preach 
ing,"  said  Miss  Gilbert  quietly. 

"  Yes,  and  you  ought  to  hear  him.  I  don't  know 
how  he  does  it,  but  he  gets  hold  of  me  awful.  If  I  ever 
get  pious  and  join  the  church,  Arthur  Blague  is  the  man 
that'll  bring  me  to  it.  I  tell  you,  when  a  man  gets  in 
front  of  him  on  Sunday,  he  catches  it — no  use  dodging 
— might  as  well  cave." 

"  I  shall  hear  him,  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Gilbert.  "  By 
the  way,"  she  added  with  affected  indifference,  "Mr. 
Blague  is  to  be  married,  I  believe." 

« Is  he  ?  " 

Fanny  blushed  in  spite  of  herself;  and  to  evade  the 
responsibility  of  starting  a  report  she  had  never  heard, 
asked  the  conductor  if  he  had  not  heard  it  before. 

"  No,"  said  he  decidedly,  "  and — no  disrespect  to 
you — I  don't  know  a  woman  in  the  world  good  enough 
for  him." 

Fanny  made  a  low  bow,  looking  archly  in  blushing 
Tom  Lampson's  face,  and  said  :  "  I  thank  you." 

"  Well,  now,  you  needn't  take  a  feller  up  so ;  you 
know  what  I  mean.  I  don't  say  but  what  you're  hand 
some  enough,  and  smart  enough,  and  genteel  enough,  and 
good  company,  and  all  that ;  but  you  ain't  one  of  his  kind ; 
you  ain't — a — well  you  know  what  I  mean — you  ain't — a 
— you  sort  o'  look  out  for  number  one,  you  know,  and  kind 


AN  AMEKICAN   STOKY.  391 

o'  like  to  have  a  good  many  strings  to  your  bow,  and 
wouldn't  love  to  buckle  into  such  a  life  as  he's  chalked 
out  for  himself." 

Tom  Lampson  grew  redder  in  the  face  from  the 
time  he  commenced  his  apology,  or  explanation,  until 
he  closed — an  embarrassment  which  Miss  Gilbert,  in 
some  moods,  would  have  enjoyed  excessively.  As  it 
was,  she  could  not  avoid  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
regarded,  even  by  her  humbler  friends,  as  a  selfish 
woman.  She  could  not  be  offended  with  Tom  Lamp- 
son  ;  for,  while  he  blurted  out  the  most  humiliating 
truths,  it  seemed  to  be  done  under  protest,  and  with  a 
tone  that  deprecated  her  displeasure.  She,  the  gifted 
and  famous  Fanny  Gilbert,  was  not  good  enough  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  humble  minister  of  the  Gospel ! 

If  Tom  Lampson  had  a  simple  nature,  it  was  also  a 
sensitive  one,  and  he  was  not  slow  to  recognize  the  fact 
that  Miss  Gilbert  did  not  wish  to  extend  the  conversa 
tion.  So  he  excused  himself,  and  visited  another  part 
of  his  train.  Fanny  had  looked  from  her  window  but 
a  few  minutes  when  familiar  objects  began  to  show 
themselves,  and  soon  the  spires  of  Crampton  were  in 
sight.  The  whistle  sounded,  the  train  slacked  its  speed, 
and  soon  came  up  to  the  Crampton  station.  On  the 
platform,  awaiting  her  arrival,  she  saw  her  father  and 
her  slender,  fair-haired  brother.  The  old  doctor  greeted 
his  daughter  with  unusual  demonstrations  of  joy  as  she 
alighted,  and  she  kissed  her  tall  and  bashful  brother  so 
heartily  that  he  blushed  to  the  tips  of  his  ears.  Leav 
ing  Fred  to  see  to  her  luggage,  she  took  her  father's 
arm,  and  walked  homeward  to  the  old  mansion.  One 
would  naturally  suppose  that  a  parent,  with  such  a  speci- 


392 

men  of  womanhood  upon  his  arm  as  Fanny  Gilbert, 
would  have  been  very  proudly  conscious  of  the  fact,  as 
he  promenaded  the  fresh  brick  sidewalks  of  Crampton. 
The  truth  was,  however,  that  Dr.  Gilbert  was  not 
thinking  of  his  daughter  at  all.  He  was  glad  to  see  her 
for  her  own  sake,  always ;  but  he  was  specially  re 
joiced  at  this  juncture,  because  she  had  an  interested 
pair  of  ears  into  which  he  could  pour  his  talk  about  that 
prodigy  of  scholarship,  Fred  Gilbert.  All  the  way 
from  the  station  to  the  house,  he  entertained  his  daugh 
ter  with  what  the  president  of  the  college  had  told  him ; 
and  what  a  certain  professor  had  written  to  him ;  and 
how  certain  gentlemen,  who  had  talented  sons  in  the 
class,  were  piqued  at  Fred's  triumph,  and  what  he  pro 
posed  to  do  with  Fred  as  soon  as  he  got  out  of  college, 
all  of  which  interested  Fanny  not  a  little,  and  grieved 
her  a  good  deal. 

She  had  felt  this  exclusive  devotion  of  her  father  to 
the  son  of  his  hope  many  times,  but  never  so  keenly  as 
now.  She  now  wanted  love — her  father's  love.  She 
wanted  to  warm  her  heart  in  the  same  paternal  interest 
with  which  her  brother  was  indued. 

Aunt  Catharine's  greeting  was  one  that  did  her  good. 
She  kissed  her  a  dozen  times  at  the  first  onset,  and 
called  her  "  dear  heart,"  and  helped  her  off  with  her  hat, 
and  went  to  her  chamber  with  her,  and  was  "  so  glad 
she  had  come  home."  "  Your  father,"  said  Aunt  Catha 
rine,  "  is  just  about  crazy  over  Fred  ;  and  he  won't  see 
that  the  poor  boy  is  killing  himself,  and  ruining  his  con 
stitution  besides." 

Fanny  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  order  of  disso 
lution  which  the  good  woman  suggested ;  but  her  own 


AN  AMERICAN   STOEY.  393 

impressions  from  Fred's  appearance  coincided  essen 
tially  \vith  those  of  her  affectionate  aunt. 

Not  a  word  had  thus  far  been  spoken  about  "  Rho 
dodendron,"  and  Fanny  realized  more  and  more  how 
much  the  world  of  affection  overshadowed  the  world  in 
which  she  had  had  so  much  of  her  life.  After  dressing 
for  tea,  she  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  and  found 
Arthur  Blague,  whom  Aunt  Catharine  had  invited  to 
meet  her,  in  conversation  with  the  doctor.  As  usual, 
Dr.  Gilbert  was  pouring  into  Arthur's  ear  the  praises 
of  his  boy.  As  the  queenly  girl  made  her  advent, 
Arthur  rose,  and  greeted  her  with  such  easy  grace  and 
thorough  self-respect  and  self-possession,  that  Fanny, 
almost  hackneyed  in  the  forms  of  polite  life,  found  her 
self  dumb.  Arthur  took  her  hand,  and  did  not  relin 
quish  it  at  once,  but  looked  down  into  her  face,  and  told 
her  how  glad  he  was  to  see  her,  and,  more  than  all, 
spoke  of  "  Rhododendron,"  and  thanked  her  for  writing 
it.  He  had  read  it,  every  word ;  and  had  read  not 
only  the  book,  but  the  most  important  reviews  of  it 
that  had  appeared. 

In  the  collision  of  these  fresh,  strong  natures,  the 
other  elements  of  the  family  circle  fell  back  into  com 
monplace.  Fanny  was  tired,  but  there  was  something 
in  Arthur's  presence  which  stimulated  her,  and,  without 
design  or  effort,  the  reunited  old  friends  found  them 
selves  at  once  in  the  most  animated  and  delightful  con 
versation.  Arthur  gave  his  arm  to  Fanny,  as  they 
passed  out  to  the  tea-table,  in  a  way  so  courtly  and  un 
embarrassed  that  Fanny  could  not  help  wondering 
where  the  recluse  had  learned  all  this.  She  had  seen 
nothing  of  Arthur  for  years.  She  remembered  him  as 
17* 


394 

the  bright  particular  star  of  her  girlish  dreams,  but  sup 
posed  that  he  had  become  bashful,  and,  in  a  degree, 
timid.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  his  old  reserve  had 
passed  away,  not  by  the  development  of  the  element  of 
self  esteem  in  his  character,  but  by  the  actual  measure 
ment  of  himself  with  relation  to  the  personalities  among 
which  he  moved.  He  had  modestly  weighed  his  o\vn 
character  and  gauged  his  own  power.  He  had  risen 
into  the  self-assertion  of  his  own  manhood.  He  was 
not,  in  reality,  versed  in  the  conventionalisms  of  so 
ciety  ;  but  he  was  a  law  unto  himself.  Out  of  a  sense 
of  propriety,  which  he  had  learned  to  trust,  and  a  heart 
of  earnest  good-will,  his  actions  in  society  all  sprang ; 
and  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  do  a  good  thing  ungrace 
fully.  What  Fanny  had  learned  in  society  as  the  result 
of  cultured  habit,  he  had  learned  at  home,  and  compre 
hended  intuitively. 

It  quite  astonished  the  doctor  and  Aunt  Catharine, 
and  the  slender  collegian,  to  see  Arthur  Blague  so  much 
at  home  with  the  polished  young  woman.  He  talked 
as  they  had  never  heard  him  talk  before.  He  unveiled 
a  life  which  they  had  never  suspected.  He  had  found 
a  mind  well  versed  in  current  literature,  and  it  was  a 
luxury  that  he  had  not  enjoyed  in  Crampton  for  many 
a  day.  They  talked  of  authors  and  of  books,  and  finally 
of  the  reviews  that  had  been  written  of  Miss  Gilbert's 
book.  These  the  young  clergyman  took  up,  one  after 
another,  and  pointed  out  their  excellencies  and  their 
mistakes,  betraying  the  most  thorough  insight  into  the 
aims  of  the  authoress,  and  showing  that  he  had  not  only 
read  her  book,  but  comprehended  its  whole  scope  and 
aim. 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  395 

The  consciousness  that  a  single  sound,  good  mind 
had  actually  dissected  and  carefully  estimated  the  pet 
product  of  her  brain  and  heart,  gave  Fanny  a  fresh  hap- 
pinest.  Was  it  unmaidenly  in  her  to  think  how,  in  the 
companionship  of  such  a  nature  as  that  of  Arthur  Blague, 
she  could  develop  both  her  heart  and  her  mind  ?  Was 
it  unnatural  for  her,  in  her  new  mood,  to  feel  what  a 
blessed  thing  it  would  be  to  be  overshadowed  by  such 
a  mind — how  sweet  it  would  be  to  sit  beneath  its 
branches,  and  scan  the  heaven  of  thought  as  their  sway 
unveiled  it  1  If  so,  she  had  not  greatly  sinned,  for  it  was 
the  first  time  she  had  ever  been  similarly  moved.  She 
comprehended,  for  the  first  time,  how  sweet  a  thing  it 
is  to  develop,  reveal,  express  one's  self  in  the  presence 
of  a  great  soul  that  measures  with  an  appreciative,  ad 
miring,  and  loving  eye,  every  utterance  and  every 
power. 

The  meal  was  unusually  prolonged.  Here  and  there 
a  suggestive  fact  or  a  seminal  thought  was  uttered,  lead 
ing  the  vivacious  pair  into  fresh  fields  of  conversation 
and  discussion,  in  which  they  seemed  to  revel,  while  the 
remainder  of  the  family  listened  in  delighted  silence. 
Occasionally,  Arthur  Blague  turned  to  Fred  for  his 
opinion,  or  to  ask  a  question,  or  to  drop  a  suggestion 
that  would  bring  him  into  the  circle  of  conversation. 
But  Fred  only  spoke  in  monosyllables,  and  seemed  to 
be  utterly  unacquainted  with  the  realm  of  thought 
through  which  the  talk  of  the  hour  was  leading  him. 

The  doctor  noticed  the  embarrassed  silence  of  his 
son,  and  did  what  he  could  to  draw  him  out ;  but,  in 
truth,  there  was  nothing  to  draw  out  that  had  relation 
to  the  things  discussed.  From  his  youngest  childhood 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

he  had  been  forced  into  a  receptive  attitude  and  habit  of 
mind.  Acquisition  from  text-books  had  been  the  single 
work  of  his  life.  Use,  demonstration,  action — these  he 
knew  nothing  of  whatever.  Words,  forms,  rules,  pro 
cesses — these  he  had  gorged  himself  with ;  but  he  had 
been  allowed  no  time  for  their  digestion,  and  they  had 
in  no  way  become  disciplinary  of  those  powers  which 
are  the  legitimate  measure  of  every  man's  manhood. 
Of  the  questions  that  touch  the  heart  and  life  of  society, 
he  knew  nothing  ;  and  he  sat  before  Arthur  Blague  and 
his  accomplished  sister  as  weak,  and  impassive,  and 
dumb  as  the  babe  of  a  day.  He  was,  too,  painfully 
conscious  of  his  deficiencies.  Among  students,  meas 
ured  by  the  standard  of  the  college  faculty,  he  was  at 
home — the  peer  of  his  associates.  In  the  life  of  the 
world,  he  was  lost. 

Dr.  Gilbert  looked  on  and  listened  in  wonder.  In 
Arthur  Blague,  he  apprehended  a  mind  bubbling  and 
brimming  with  wealth.  In  his  pet  child — the  brilliant 
collegian — he  saw  nothing  but  an  intellectual  stripling^ 
entirely  overshadowed  by  the  robust  nature,  and  varied 
culture,  and  demonstrative  powers,  of  the  home-grown 
man.  One  had  become  an  intellectual  pigmy  on  his 
advantages ;  the  other,  an  intellectual  giant  on  his  dis 
advantages. 

Arthur  Blague  took  early  leave  of  the  family,  after 
rising  from  the  tea-table,  from  consideration  of  Miss 
Gilbert's  fatigue.  As  he  left  the  door,  and  slowly 
walked  homeward,  where  the  accustomed  night  of 
watching  awaited  him,  he  felt  that  he  had  met  with  one 
of  the  most  refreshing  passages  of  his  life.  For  long 
years  he  had,  whenever  he  met  Fanny  Gilbert,  been 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  397 

aware  of  something  in  her  character  which  was  repulsive 
to  his  sense  of  that  which  is  best  in  womanhood.  She 
had  always  appeared  heartless  and  selfish.  There  was 
a  certain  boldness — a  certain  masculine  forwardness — 
that  impressed  him  most  unpleasantly.  What  had  pro 
duced  the  change  1  He  felt  that  he  had  found  his  way 
into  her  nature  and  character  through  a  different  avenue, 
or  that  he  had  found  a  new  side  to  her  character,  or 
that  she  had  changed.  He  felt,  indeed,  that  it  would 
not  be  wise  for  him  to  see  very  much  of  her.  Such  so 
ciety  would  not  only  tend  to  divert  him  from  the  aims 
of  his  life,  but  it  might  endanger  his  peace.  He  could 
not  think  of  Fanny  Gilbert  as  the  wife  of  a  minister. 
He  would  not  think  of  her  as  the  wife  of  Arthur  Blague. 
As  for  Fanny  herself,  she  went  to  her  bed  delighted 
and  satisfied.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  talking  with 
a  man,  and  that  that  which  was  best  in  her  had  been 
seen  and  appreciated  by  him.  She  had  received  from 
him  no  vapid  compliments,  uttered  for  the  pu-rpose  of 
pleasing  her.  Not  one  word  of  flattery  had  been  breathed 
by  him  ;  but,  out  of  a  sound  judgment  and  a  true  con 
science,  he  had  uttered  that  which  nourished  her  self- 
respect,  and  gave  her  an  impetus  toward  those  nobler 
ends  of  life  that  were  dawning  upon  her.  He  had  met 
her  as  an  intellectual  equal.  He  had  probed  her  mind 
with  question  and  suggestion ;  and  under  the  stimulus 
of  his  genial  presence  it  had  abundantly  responded  to 
their  research.  Moreover,  she  saw  that  the  peerless 
boy  of  her  early  dreams — so  long  forgotten  and  so  long 
slighted — might  easily  become  the  peerless  man  of  her 
maturer  judgment.  But  he  was  a  minister,  and  she  was 
not  good  enough  for  him  !  She  and  Mr.  Thomas  Lamp- 


398  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

son  had  the  mutual  honor  that  night  of  agreeing  in 
opinion  upon  this  point. 

A  few  days  passed  away,  bringing  no  opportunity 
for  enlarging  the  acquaintance  so  happily  renewed  be 
tween  the  young  minister  and  Miss  Gilbert.  It  seemed 
to  the  young  woman  that  he  shunned  her,  as,  indeed,  he 
did.  They  met  occasionally  on  the  street,  and  she  al 
ways  detected  in  him  an  air  of  restraint,  very  unlike 
the  easy  and  happy  manner  in  which  he  had  carried 
himself  on  the  evening  of  their  meeting — an  air  which 
equally  mystified  and  piqued  her. 

As  soon  as  Fanny's  old  acquaintances  found  that 
her  heart  was  open  to  them,  they  nocked  around  her, 
invited  her  to  their  dwellings,  vied  with  each  other  in 
their  cordial  attentions  to  her,  and  were  happy  in  her 
society.  At  every  fresh  fountain  of  love  thus  opened 
to  her,  she  drank  with  delight.  Softened  by  every 
day's  experience,  and  rejoicing  in  the  grateful  aliment 
which  her  new  life  brought  to  her,  and  the  humble  love 
that  paid  her  tribute,  she  could  only  wonder  at  the  long 
delusion  that  had  inthralled  her. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  young  valedictorian  had  re 
turned  to  college,  to  make  ready  for  the  approaching 
anniversary,  which  was  to  witness  his  triumph,  and  set 
him  free  from  the  bondage  of  his  college  life.  In  the 
few  days  he  spent  with  his  sister,  she  found  that  the 
triumph  which  lay  before  him  would  in  all  probability 
be  the  last  of  his  life.  He  had  overtasked  himself,  and 
had  well-nigh  expended  the  stock  of  vitality  with  which 
nature  had  endowed  him. 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  399 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE    CEAMPTON    COMET    BEAPPEAES,     PASSES    ITS    PERIHELION 
AGAIN,   AND  FADES   OUT. 

"  COMMENCEMENT  "  at  old  Dartmouth  !  Day  mem 
orable  to  incoming  freshmen  and  outgoing  graduates ! 
Annual  epoch  in  the  life  of  Hanover,  on  one  side  or  the 
other  of  which  all  events  respectfully  arrange  them-' 
selves  !  Holiday  for  all  the  region  round  about,  for 
which  small  boys  save  their  money,  and  on  which  strings 
of  rustic  lovers,  in  Concord  wagons,  make  pilgrimages 
to  the  shrines  of  learning  !  Day  of  the  reunion  of  long- 
separated  classmates,  who  parted  with  beardless  faces 
and  meet  with  bald  heads  !  Day  of  black  coats,  pale 
faces,  and  white  cravats  !  Day  of  rosettes,  and  badges, 
and  blue  ribbons,  and  adolescent  oratory,  and  proces 
sions,  and  imported  brass  bands  !  Carnival  of  hawkers 
and  peddlers !  Advent  of  sweet  cider,  and  funeral  of 
oysters,  dead  with  summer  travel !  Great  day  of  the 
State  of  New  Hampshire  ! 

Commencement  day  came  at  old  Dartmouth,  and 
found  Dr.  Gilbert  and  Fanny  in  the  occupation  of  the 
best  rooms  in  the  old  Dartmouth  Hotel.  Booths  and 


400 

tents  had  been  erected  in  every  part  of  the  village 
where  they  were  permitted,  and  early  in  the  morning, 
before  the  good  people  of  Hanover  had  kindled  their 
kitchen  fires,  or  the  barkeeper  of  the  hotel  had  swept 
off  his  foot-worn  piazza,  the  throng  of  peddlers  and  boys 
began  to  pour  into  the  village. 

Dr.  Gilbert's  zeal  in  educational  matters,  and  Dr. 
Gilbert's  reputed  wealth,  were  appreciated  at  Dart 
mouth.  He  had,  a  few  years  before,  been  appointed  to 
a  place  upon  the  board  of  trustees  of  that  venerable  in 
stitution,  and  had  annually  exhibited  his  portly  form 
and  intelligent  old  face  upon  the  platform  during  its 
anniversaries.  He  enjoyed  the  occasion  and  the  distinc 
tion  always ;  but  he  had  never  visited  his  alma  mater 
with  such  anticipations  of  pleasure  as  warmed  him  when 
he  rose  on  the  morning  we  have  introduced,  and  threw 
'open  the  shutters  to  let  in  the  sunlight  of  a  cloudless 
"Commencement  Day."  Dr.  Gilbert  shaved  himself 
very  carefully  that  morning.  Then  he  enveloped  him 
self  in  a  suit  of  black  broadcloth,  that  had  never  spent 
on  the  Sabbath  air  its  original  bloom.  Then  he  brushed 
his  heavy  white  hair  back  from  his  high  forehead ;  and 
it  is  possible  that  he  indulged  in  some  justifiable  reflec 
tions  upon  the  grandeur  of  his  personal  appearance. 

There  were  several  reasons  for  the  delightful  char 
acter  of  Dr.  Gilbert's  anticipations.  The  central  reason 
was,  of  course,  the  gratification  he  would  have  of  seeing 
the  son  of  his  love  honored  in  the  presence  of  a  cloud 
of  witnesses.  Another  was  the  pleasure  of  appearing 
with  a  daughter  who  had  made  herself  famous.  Another 
was  the  expectation  of  meeting  his  surviving  classmates. 
To  these  it  would  be  his  pride  to  appear  as  a  patron 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  401 

and  trustee  of  the  college  ;  as  a  man  who  had  been  suc 
cessful  in  his  profession,  and  in  the  accumulation  of 
wealth  j  and  as  the  father  of  the  valedictorian,  and  a 
celebrated  authoress.  In  fact,  as  Dr.  Gilbert  stood  that 
morning,  looking  at  himself  in  his  mirror,  and  thinking 
of  what  he  was,  and  what  the  day  had  in  store  for  him, 
he  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was,  indeed,  the  great 
day  of  his  life. 

The  breakfast  bell  rang  its  cheery  summons,  and  the 
doctor  knocked  at  his  daughter's  door.  She  would  be 
ready  in  a  moment.  So  he  paced  slowly  up  and  down 
the  hall,  swinging  his  hands,  and  giving  courtly  greeting 
to  the  rabble  that  poured  by  him  in  their  anxiety  to  get 
seats  at  the  board.  The  long  stare  that  some  of  them 
gave  him,  he  took  as  a  tribute  to  his  venerable  and 
striking  appearance,  as,  in  fact,  it  was.  At  length 
Fanny  appeared ;  and  taking  the  stylish  woman  upon 
his  arm,  he  descended  to  the  breakfast-room,  where  fifty 
men  and  women  were  feeding  at  a  long  table,  at  the  head 
of  which  were  two  vacant  chairs,  reserved  for  Dr.  Gilbert 
and  his  daughter.  In  an  instant  all  eyes  were  upon 
the  distinguished  pair.  Then  neighboring  heads  were 
brought  together,  and,  in  whispers,  the  personal  appear 
ance  of  the  authoress  was  discussed.  Old  men  looked 
over  their  spectacles,  and  young  men  in  white  cravats 
looked  through  theirs.  Fanny  could  not  but  be  con 
scious  that  she  was  the  object  of  many  eyes,  and,  hold 
ing  her  own  fixed  upon  her  plate,  she  breakfasted  in 
awkward  silence. 

She  thought  the  company  would  never  finish  their 
meal.  The  truth  was,  they  were  all  waiting  to  see  her 
retire ;  and  when  she  and  her  father  rose  to  leave  the 


402  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

table,  there  was  a  general  shoving  back  of  chairs,  and 
two  or  three  old  gentlemen  came  around  to  exchange 
a  cordial  "  good  morning  "  with  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  get  an 
introduction  to  his  daughter.  Busily  engaged  in  conver 
sation,  they  naturally  took  their  way  to  the  parlor  ;  and, 
before  Fanny  could  get  away,  she  found  herself  holding 
a  levee,  with  a  crowd  of  persons  around,  pressing  for 
ward  to  be  introduced.  A  fine  old  doctor  of  divinity 
had  assumed  the  privileges  of  a  friend,  and  while  Dr. 
Gilbert  was,  with  happy  volubility,  pouring  into  the 
ears  of  an  old  classmate  the  praises  and  successes  of  his 
son,  his  daughter  was  coolly  receiving  the  homage  of 
the  assembly.  There  were  a  dozen  young  men  who 
had  come  back  to  get  their  "  master's  degree."  Some 
of  them  had  their  hair  stuck  up  very  straight,  like 
bristles,  and  some  of  them  wore  their  hair  very  long, 
and  brushed  behind  their  ears.  Some  were  very  care 
fully  dressed,  and  none  more  so  than  those  who  were 
seedy.  Some  were  prematurely  fat,  and  others  were 
prematurely  lean  ;  but  in  all  this  wide  variety  and  con 
trariety,  there  were  some  things  in  which  they  were  all 
alike.  They  had  all  read  "  Khododendron,"  they  all 
admired  it,  they  were  all  happy  to  meet  its  author,  they 
were  all  desirous  of  making  an  impression,  and  were  all 
secretly  anxious  of  winning  the  special  favor  of  Miss 
Gilbert. 

Thus  forced  into  prominence,  Fanny  exerted  herself 
to  converse  as  became  her  with  those  about  her ;  but 
always,  as  the  smiling  gentlemen  appeared  and  retired, 
she  could  not  resist  the  feeling  that  they  were  beneath 
her — that  they  were  immature — that  they  wanted  age 
and  character.  There  was  an  element  of  insipidity — 


AN  AMEEICAN   STOEY.  403 

something  unsatisfying — in  all  they  said.  Often  the 
figure  of  Arthur  Blague,  who  had  no  part  in  this  fes 
tival,  came  before  her  imagination — the  tall  form,  the 
noble  presence,  the  deep  dark  eye,  the  rich  voice,  re 
vealing  the  rich  thought  and  the  rich  nature — and  the 
chattering  and  smiling  throng  seemed  like  dwarfs  to  her. 

At  length  her  brother  appeared,  and  taking  his  arm 
she  left  the  room,  and  ascended  with  him  to  her  parlor. 
The  poor  boy  was  pale,  and  trembling  with  nervous  ap 
prehension.  A  bright,  red  spot  was  burning  upon 
either  cheek,  his  dark  eye  was  unnaturally  bright,  and 
the  exertion  of  ascending  the  stairs  had  quite  disturbed 
his  breathing.  He  had  worked  up  to  this  point  with 
courage  ;  but  now,  that  he  was  about  to  grasp  the  prize 
for  which  he  had  so  faithfully  struggled,  not  only  his 
courage,  but  his  strength,  failed  him.  Fanny  was  very 
sadly  impressed  by  the  appearance  of  her  brother. 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she  put  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  said  :  "  Ah,  Fred  !  If  I  could  only  give 
you  some  of  my  strength  to-day  !  " 

Then  the  doctor  came  in,  but  there  was  something 
before  his  eyes  that  blinded  him  to  the  real  condition  of 
his  son.  He  was  brimful  of  happiness.  He  had  been 
praised,  and  congratulated,  and  flattered,  until  he  was  as 
happy  as  he  could  be.  The  young  man  saw  it  all ; 
pressed  his  feverish  lips  together  in  determination,  and 
spoke  no  word  to  dampen  his  father's  ardor.  In  that 
father's  heart  was  the  spring  of  his  own  ambition.  To 
gratify  him — to  accomplish  that  upon  which  his  father 
had  hung  many  years  of  fond  hopes — he  had  labored, 
night  and  day,  in  health  and  sickness.  Now  he  was  de 
termined  that  the  soul  within  him,  upon  which  the  frail 


404 

body  had  lived  for  months,  should  eke  out  his  strength, 
and  carry  him  through  the  trial  of  the  day.  Fanny  saw 
it  all,  pressed  his  hand,  and  said,  "  God  help  you, 
Fred  ! "  and  the  young  man  went  out,  to  act  his  part 
with  his  associates. 

At  this  time  the  village  was  becoming  more  and 
more  crowded;  and  word  was  brought  to  the  doctor 
that  he  had  better  secure  a  seat  for  his  daughter  in  the 
church,  in  which  the  exercises  of  the  day  were  to  be 
held.  So  Fanny  dressed  early,  and  was  taken  over  by  a 
smart  boy  with  a  blue  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole,  while  the 
doctor  remained  behind  to  add  dignity  to  the  procession. 

At  ten  o'clock,  there  was  a  sound  of  martial  music 
in  Hanover ;  and  a  company  of  bearded  men  in  mili 
tary  uniform,  preceded  by  a  marshal,  and  followed  by  a 
large  company  of  students,  marched  to  the  Dartmouth 
Hotel,  and  announced  by  trumpet  and  drum  their  readi 
ness  to  conduct  Dr.  Gilbert  and  his  associate  dignitaries 
to  the  church. 

Down  the  steps,  through  a  crowd  of  eager  boys, 
and  rosy-cheeked  country  belles,  and  their  brown-faced 
lovers,  Dr.  Gilbert,  arm  in  arm  with  an  old  classmate, 
made  his  way,  and  took  his  place  of  honor  in  the  pro 
cession.  Word  was  given  to  march,  and  the  village 
rang  again  with  the  blare  of  brass,  and  the  boom  of 
drums,  and  the  din  of  cymbals ;  and  the  marshal,  and 
the  band  in  beards,  and  the  corps  of  students,  took  a 
circuit  around  the  common,  and,  reaching  the  church  at 
last,  where  a  great  crushing  crowd  was  assembled  upon 
the  steps,  the  students  divided  their  lines,  and  the  guests 
and  the  men  of  honor  passed  through  with  uncovered 
heads,  and  disappeared  within. 


AN   AMEKICAN   STORY.  405 

In  five  minutes  more,  every  seat  and  aisle  in  the 
church  was  filled.  It  was  ten  minutes  before  order 
could  be  secured.  Then  music  was  called  for,  and  the 
overture  to  Tancredi  was  played  as  a  prelude  to  a 
prayer  not  quite  so  long  as  the  opera ;  which,  in  turn, 
was  followed  by  "  Blue-eyed  Mary,"  introducing  a  lively 
march,  called  "  Wood-up,"  which  introduced  the  ambi 
tious  leader  of  the  band  as  the  performer  of  a  prepos 
terous  key-bugle  solo. 

Then  came  the  "  Salutatory  "  in  very  transparent 
Latin,  in  which  everybody  was  "  saluted  " — the  Presi 
dent  of  the  College,  the  professors,  the  trustees,  and  the 
people.  The  beautiful  women  present  received  special 
attention  from  the  gallant  young  gentleman,  and  the 
cordial  terms  of  this  portion  of  the  salutation  drew  forth 
marked  demonstrations  of  applause.  It  was  noticed, 
however,  that  when  the  trustees  were  greeted,  the  young 
man  addressed  himself  particularly  to  Dr.  Gilbert,  who 
received  the  address  with  graceful  dignity ;  and  that 
when  feminine  beauty  came  in  for  its  share  of  attention, 
the  young  man's  eyes  were  fastened  upon  Miss  Gilbert, 
who  occupied  a  seat  upon  a  retiring  portion  of  the 
stage.  It  really  seemed  to  the  doctor  as  if  all  the 
events  of  the  day  took  him  for  a  pivot,  and  revolved 
around  him. 

As  the  exercises  progressed,  Fanny  Gilbert  found 
herself  strangely  interested.  There  was  nothing  of 
special  attraction  and  brilliancy  in  the  orations ;  but 
there  was  something  in  the  subjects  treated,  and  in  the 
names  pronounced,  that  called  back  to  her  a  scene  of 
the  past,  which  occupied  a  position  quite  at  the  other 
end  of  her  career.  "  The  Poetry  of  the  Heavens" 


406  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

brought  back  to  her  the  chalk  planetarium  of  many 
years  before,  on  which  that  poetry  was  illustrated  under 
her  special  direction.  "  Napoleon,"  and  Caesar,"  and 
"  Joan  of  Arc,"  all  figured  upon  the  Dartmouth  stage, 
and  she  could  not  help  smiling  as  Rev.  Jonas  Sliter 
returned  to  her  memory.  So,  through  all  that  tedious 
day,  Dartmouth  and  Crampton  were  curiously  mixed 
together,  as  if  in  fact,  no  less  than  in  imagination,  there 
were  a  connection  between  them.  There  sat  her  father 
before  her,  as  he  had  sat  a  dozen  years  ago — pleased, 
eager,  interested.  There  was  she,  occupying  the  same 
relative  place  upon  the  platform.  There  was  the  green 
baize  carpet ;  there  was  the  throng  before  it.  Again 
and  again  rang  out  the  cheers,  as  they  rang  on  the 
day  of  the  exhibition  of  the  Crampton  Light  Infantry. 
There  was  she,  awaiting,  as  on  that  occasion,  the  appear 
ance  of  her  brother — a  comet  to  come  forth  from  the 
hidden  space  behind  the  curtain,  and  then  to  retire. 

The  vividness  with  which  this  old  experience  was  re 
called  to  her  imagination  by  the  scenes  and  events 
around  her,  impressed  Fanny  almost  superstitiously. 
The  day  and  its  incidents  seemed  like  one  of  those  pas 
sages  known  to  be  strange  to  our  observation,  yet  im 
pressing  us  with  their  familiarity — glimpses  caught 
through  some  rent  in  the  oblivious  veil  that  hides  from 
us  a  previous  existence.  The  doctor  saw  nothing  of 
this.  It  was  fitting  that  there  should  be  this  introduc 
tion  to  the  performance  of  his  son.  Every  glory  won 
by  those  who  came  upon  the  stage,  and  retired,  was 
added  to  the  crown  of  his  boy,  for  he  had  distanced  all 
of  them.  Not  a  good  word  was  spoken,  not  a  worthy 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  407 

success  was  achieved,  that  did  not  minister  to  the  splen 
dor  of  his  son's  triumph. 

Orations  and  music  were  finished  at  last,  and  only 
the  Valedictory  of  Fred  Gilbert  remained  to  be  pro 
nounced.  Around  this  performance  and  around  him, 
was  concentrated  the  keenest  interest  of  the  occasion. 
His  devotion  to  study,  his  personal  beauty,  his  excel 
lent  character,  his  well-known  gifts,  and  his  achievement 
of  the  highest  honors  of  his  class,  brought  to  him  uni 
versal  sympathy,  and  directed  to  his  part  in  the  day's 
programme  the  most  grateful  attention. 

His  name  was  pronounced,  and  the  moment  he  ap 
peared  he  was  greeted  with  a  general  outburst  of  ap 
plause.  The  doctor  forgot  himself,  lost  his  self-posses 
sion,  and  leaned  forward  upon  his  cane  with  an  eager 
smile.  Quick  before  Fanny  came  again  the  old  plane 
tarium  ;  but  alas  !  the  golden-haired  boy  was  gone,  and 
a  pale,  fragile  young  man,  with  chestnut  curls,  was  in  his 
place.  The  house  was  still,  and  the  feeble  voice  went 
out  upon  the  congregation  like  the  wail  of  a  sick  child. 
He  had  evidently  summoned  all  his  strength ;  and,  as 
he  proceeded,  his  tones  became  rounder  and  more  musi 
cal  ;  but  the  whole  address  seemed  more  like  a  farewell 
to  the  world  than  a  farewell  to  the  college.  Tears 
gathered  in  all  eyes  under  the  spell  of  his  plaintive 
cadences,  and  all  seemed  to  hold  their  breath,  that  he 
might  expend  no  more  upon  them  than  was  necessary. 

The  last  words  were  said,  and  then  there  rang  out 
over  the  whole  assembly  cheer  upon  cheer.  Bouquets 
were  thrown  upon  the  stage  by  fair  hands  in  the  galle 
ries,  and  handkerchiefs  were  waved  at  the  tips  of  jewelled 
fingers.  The  doctor's  eyes  are  wet  with  delight,  but 


408 

Fanny  sits  and  watches  the  young  man  in  alarm.  There 
is  a  strange,  convulsive  movement  of  his  chest,  as  he 
stoops  to  gather  the  bouquets  at  his  feet.  He  carries 
his  handkerchief  to  his  mouth,  and  holds  it  there  while 
he  bows  his  acknowledgments  to  the  galleries.  As  he 
retires  from  the  stage,  Fanny  catches  a  glimpse  of  the 
handkerchief,  and  it  is  bright  with  the  blood  of  his 
heart !  Ah !  the  comet  has  come  and  gone  out  into 
the  unknown  spaces — sunned  itself  in  public  applause 
for  the  last  time — gone  to  shine  feebler  and  feebler  in 
the  firmament  of  life,  until,  in  an  unknown  heaven,  it 
passes  from  human  sight. 

This  fancy  flies  swiftly  through  Fanny's  brain — this 
thought  pierces  her  heart — as  she  rises  to  her  feet, 
walks  quickly  across  the  stage,  and  whispers  a  few 
words  in  her  father's  ear.  He  looks  up  into  her  face 
with  a  vague,  incredulous  stare,  and  shakes  his  head. 
She  takes  him  firmly  by  the  arm,  and  leads  him  won 
dering  to  the  curtain  behind  which  Fred  has  retired. 
She  parts  the  hanging  folds,  and  both  enter.  The  move 
ment  is  little  noticed  by  the  assembly,  for  some  have 
already  turned  to  leave  the  house,  and  others  are  listen 
ing  to  the  music,  or  making  their  comments  to  each 
other  upon  the  address. 

As  the  doctor  and  Fanny  entered  the  little  curtained 
corner,  they  saw  Fred  sitting  in  a  chair,  freely  spitting 
blood  upon  his  handkerchief,  and  surrounded  by  a  little 
company  of  frightened  associates.  Dr.  Gilbert,  though 
he  had  been  accustomed  through  a  long  professional  life 
to  disease  and  calamity  in  their  most  terrible  forms, 
stood  before  this  case  as  helpless  as  a  child.  Beyond 
the  most  obvious  directions,  he  could  say  and  do  noth- 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  409 

ing ;  and  an  eminent  physician  of  the  village,  at  that 
moment  seated  upon  the  platform,  was  sent  for.  By 
Fanny's  order,  Fred  was  removed  to  the  hotel,  where 
she  could  nurse  him ;  and  all  the  events  of  the  day  were 
forgotten  in  this  new  and  most  unlooked-for  trial. 

This  seemed  to  be  the  one  event  of  Dr.  Gilbert's 
life  for  which  he  had  no  preparation.  It  took  from  him 
all  his  strength  and  all  his  self-possession.  He  stood 
before  it  in  utter  helplessness,  offering  no  opinion,  as 
suming  no  responsibility,  hardly  able  to  perform  the 
simplest  office  of  attendance,  taking  Fanny's  will  as  law, 
and  relying  upon  the  professional  skill  of  others.  As 
the  more  serious  features  of  the  attack  passed  away,  and 
Fred  was  allowed  to  whisper  his  feelings  and  desires  in 
to  the  ear  of  his  sister,  he  expressed  a  decided  wish  that 
his  father  might  be  kept  from  his  bedside.  The  afflic 
tion  of  his  father  pained  him  more  than  his  own  disease, 
and  he  could  not  bear  to  look  at  him. 

The  composure  and  happiness  of  her  brother  aston 
ished  Fanny  beyond  measure.  As  he  lay  upon  his  bed, 
day  after  day,  with  his  pleasant  eyes  upon  her,  and  her 
hand  in  his,  he  seemed  more  like  a  child  that  had  lain 
down  to  rest,  than  like  a  young  man,  suddenly  snatched 
from  active  life  and  enterprise  and  hope.  "  Oh  !  it's  so 
sweet  to  rest,  Fanny,"  he  would  say,  "  so  sweet  to  rest." 

The  multitude  had  departed,  and  the  hotel  and  the 
street  were  pervaded  by  almost  a  Sabbath  stillness. 
Days  passed  away.  Sympathizing  friends  called  and 
made  inquiries,  and  offered  unaccepted  services,  and  re 
tired.  The  doctor  lounged  upon  the  piazza,  or  walked 
listlessly  about  the  halls,  or  engaged  his  friends  in  con 
versations,  of  which  his  poor  boy  was  always  the  theme. 
18 


4:10  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK  : 

Every  word  of  encouragement  given  by  the  professional 
attendant  was  repeated  by  the  doctor  to  every  man  he 
met.  Once  or  twice,  he  entered  his  son's  room,  and 
began,  in  the  old  way,  to  talk  of  what  he  should  next 
undertake,  under  a  vague  impression  that  a  contempla 
tion  of  possible  triumphs  in  the  future  would  stimulate 
and  encourage  him.  But  the  young  man  turned  his  face 
away  in  distress,  and  Fanny  interfered  in  his  behalf. 

Fred  Gilbert  was  not  only  a  child  again,  but  he 
wished  to  be  one.  Manhood's  great  struggle  with  the 
world  had  come  upon  him  too  early.  He  had  been 
forced  away  from  home — driven  to  the  seclusion  of 
study — stimulated  to  efforts  that  necessarily  crucified 
his  social  sympathies — and  now,  when  he  was  disabled, 
and  the  great  prize  secured,  he  was  only  too  happy  to 
become  helpless,  and  to  give  himself  up  to  the  care  and 
attention  of  others.  A  sick  girl  could  not  have  been 
more  gentle,  more  affectionate,  more  submissive.  He 
rejoiced  in  subjection,  and  was  as  happy  under  Fanny's 
brooding  care  as  a  babe  upon  its  mother's  bosom. 

A  fortnight  passed  away,  and  the  young  man  be 
came  able  to  occupy  his  chair  for  the  greater  portion  of 
every  day.  September  was  creeping  on,  and,  though 
the  earth  still  looked  fresh  and  green,  the  murmurous 
hush  of  autumn  was  settling  upon  the  landscape.  The 
dreamy,  sibilant  breath  of  insect  life,  unintermittent, 
but  heard  rather  by  the  listening  soul  than  the  listening 
sense,  pervaded  the  atmosphere,  as  if  it  were  the  aspira 
tion  of  a  seething  sea  of  silence.  Industrious  relays  of 
crickets  made  music  all  day  and  all  night.  Here  and 
there  upon  the  tops  of  the  maples,  bright  leaves  of  car 
mine  or  vermilion  showed  themselves.  The  maize  in 


AN  AMEKICAN   STOEY.  411 

the  fields  displayed  its  tokens  of  maturity ;  and  the 
apple-orchards  were  bending  beneath  their  burden  of 
crimson  and  gold. 

On  one  of  the  loveliest  days  of  this  charming  season, 
Dr.  Gilbert  and  his  family  set  out  upon  their  return  to 
Cramp  ton.  An  easy  carriage  had  been  secured,  and  two 
days  of  slow  driving  and  frequent  resting  were  occupied 
by  the  journey.  Dr.  Gilbert  entered  his  dwelling  a 
strangely  altered  man.  His  thoughts  had  flowed  in  one 
channel  so  long,  and  he  had  lost  in  the  passage  of  life  so 
much  of  his  native  elasticity,  that  he  could  carve  out  no 
new  enterprises  and  discover  no  new  fields  of  interest. 
His  mind  had  travelled  eagerly  on  with  his  boy,  until 
the  current  of  his  boy's  life  was  checked,  and  then  he 
neither  knew  which  way  to  turn,  nor  cared  to  turn  at 
all.  Fanny  studied  carefully,  not  only  the  case  of  her 
brother,  but  that  of  her  father ;  and  the  more  thor 
oughly  she  became  acquainted  with  both,  the  more  was 
she  convinced  that  new  and  peculiar  cares  were  coming 
upon  her. 

While  Fred  was  in  immediate  danger,  her  fears  and 
her  sympathies,  added  to  her  active  duties,  kept  her 
mind  engaged.  The  moment  home  was  reached,  and 
Aunt  Catharine's  ministry  secured,  she  began  to  grow 
uneasy,  and  to  long  for  something  to  engage  her  powers. 
The  further  pursuit  of  literature  did  not  enlist  her 
thoughts  at  all.  She  had  had  enough  of  that,  and  felt 
that  she  could  never  undertake  it  again,  unless  under 
the  impulse  of  some  new  motive.  But  Fanny  was  not 
left  to  seek  for  labor;  it  came  to  her.  Her  father 
wanted  writing  done  and  business  transacted ;  and,  by 
degrees,  she  found  herself  absorbed  in  an  employment 


412 

entirely  new  to  her.  Gradually  assuming  the  responsi 
bilities  of  her  new  position,  she  became  accountant, 
farmer,  and  general  manager  of  the  estate.  This  new 
life  pleased  her  well,  and  the  success  which  attended  her 
administration  of  affairs  was  the  marvel  of  all  who 
knew  her. 

The  invalid  brother  grew  stronger,  but  he  wa? 
broken-spirited.  He  had  not  a  particle  of  ambition  for 
any  thing  higher  than  he  had  achieved  ;  and  it  was  evi 
dent  to  his  friends  that  his  stock  of  vitality  was  too  far 
reduced  by  premature  expenditures  to  allow  him  to  ac 
complish  any  thing  further  in  the  world.  If  he  rode  out, 
Fanny  always  drove.  If  any  business  was  to  be  done,  it 
was  put  upon  Fanny.  She  assumed  the  reins  of  authority 
in  the  household — gracefully,  and  with  sufficient  consider, 
ation  for  her  father — and  became  "  the  man  of  the  house." 
All  this  pleased  her  not  a  little.  When  not  otherwise 
engaged,  she  was  in  the  farm-yard,  among  the  horses,  the 
cattle,  and  the  sheep.  Her  dominion  there  had  a  strange 
fascination  for  her.  The  dumb  creatures  all  learned  to 
love  her.  They  ran  toward  her  when  she  appeared, 
took  food  at  her  hand,  obeyed  her  will.  She  drove 
horses  that  were  no  more  than  half-tamed,  and  took 
delight  in  the  dangerous  play.  People  talked  about 
her,  and  only  a  single  autumn,  filled  with  these  pursuits, 
made  her  rather  unpleasantly  notorious. 

Out  of  this  life,  so  greedy  a  nature  as  hers  could  not 
draw  food  always,  and  was  not  destined  to  draw  food 
long.  Yet  she  was  trying  to  be  more  unselfish  than  she 
had  ever  been.  She  was  exercising  more  patience  and 
forbearance  in  her  relations  to  her  family  than  she  had 
ever  exercised  before.  Her  brother  could  not  read ; 


AN  AMEEICAK  STORY.  413 

so,  many  a  long  evening  she  read  to  him ;  but  she  felt 
the  task  to  be  irksome.  Often,  when  engaged  in  these 
offices,  she  thought  of  her  patient  neighbor,  Arthur 
Blague,  and  wondered  where  his  strength,  patience,  and 
equanimity  had  their  source.  When  she  mixed  with 
the  world,  and  came  into  contact  with  the  rough  natures 
around  her,  she  felt  strong ;  but  when  she  came  to  this 
patient,  humble  ministry,  she  felt  that  she  was  but  a 
weak  and  wilful  child. 

Arthur  had  been  an  interested — sometimes  a  pain 
fully  interested — observer  of  all  her  movements.  He 
had,  however,  little  of  her  society,  because  he  chose  to 
keep  away  from  her.  He  had  been  pleased  with  her 
efficiency  in  the  service  of  her  father,  but  there  were 
displays  of  masculine  tastes  that  troubled  him  more 
than  he  would  have  been  willing  to  confess. 


414 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 


CHAPTEE   XXIY. 

MISS   GILBEET  EECEIVES  A  LESSON  WHICH  SHE  NEVEB  FORGETS, 
AND  "WHICH  DOES  HEE  GOOD  ALL  THE  DAYS  OF  HEE  LIFE. 

THE  winter  that  followed  these  events  was  a  severe 
one,  and  restrained  the  occupants  of  the  Gilbert  mansion 
within  the  walls  of  home.  Fanny  missed  the  variety 
and  vivacity  of  her  old  New  York  life.  The  same  du 
ties,  the  same  amusements,  the  same  faces,  the  unvary 
ing,  dreary  scene,  tired  her.  Never  in  her  life  had  she 
indulged  so  deeply  in  reverie.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  lived  her  life  out — that  she  had  either  come  to 
its  end,  or  had  exhausted  all  its  grateful  significance. 
She  looked  backward,  and  saw  that  the  freshness  of 
youth  was  gone,  and  that  she  had  achieved  the  highest 
good  she  had  labored  for.  She  examined  the  present, 
and  found  herself  in  the  maturity  and  full  strength  of 
her  powers  without  an  object  of  life  that  laid  hold  upon 
the  coming  years,  and  without  satisfying  companion 
ship.  She  looked  forward,  and  the  future  spread  itself 
before  her,  a  dark  and  meaningless  blank. 

A  nature  like  hers  could  not  sleep.     Vitality  is  a 


AN  AMEEICAN   STOKT. 

restless  principle,  and  she  had  it  in  abundance.  Some 
times  she  would  issue  forth  in  the  wildest  storms,  sim 
ply  for  the  pleasure  of  excitement — the  excitement  of 
struggling  with  fierce  winds  and  overcoming  obstacles. 
Occasionally  she  and  Arthur  were  thrown  into  one 
another's  society,  always  accidentally.  By  some  strange 
influence,  they  found  it  impossible  to  maintain  a  distant 
reserve  in  one  another's  presence.  There  was  no  dis 
guising  the  hearty  pleasure  with  which  they  took  each 
the  other's  hand  on  every  unsought  opportunity. 
Fanny  wondered  why  Arthur  did  not  oftener  call  upon 
her.  She  was  piqued  by  his  apparent  desire  to  shun 
her,  for  her  woman's  heart  told  her  that  he  was  happy 
in  her  presence,  and  her  woman's  heart  longed  for  his 
manly  society. 

There  had  been  a  long  winter  storm — not  the  storm 
of  a  day  or  a  night,  but  of  a  week — not  heavy,  covering 
fences  and  filling  the  highway  with  drifted  piles — but 
intermittent,  coming  down  in  sleet  and  snow,  from  low, 
gray  clouds  that  hid  the  mountain-tops,  and  hung  chill 
and  hard,  with  discouraging  persistency,  over  the  val 
leys.  Morning  after  morning  had  broken  upon  the  in 
mates  of  the  Gilbert  mansion  in  dismal  gloom,  and  day 
after  day  twilight  had  descended  upon  mid-afternoon. 
The  same  bleak  landscape,  the  same  muffled  sleigh- 
riders — their  heads  bent  to  break  the  blast — the  same 
gray  sky,  the  same  dull  life  from  day  to  day,  had 
wearied  and  chafed  Fanny  Gilbert  until  she  began  to 
feel  that  winter  life  in  Crampton  was  unendurable.  At 
last,  the  storm  broke  up.  In  the  night,  the  wind 
chopped  about,  and  came  down  from  the  north-west  in 
a  long,  hard  blow,  that  bellowed  in  the  chimneys,  and 


416  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

slammed  the  blinds,  and  whistled  through  the  leafless 
maples,  and  roared  on  the  distant  hills,  as  if  it  were  re 
joicing  in  its  own  rough  way  over  the  great  victory  it 
had  won  from  the  grim  spirit  of  the  storm. 

As  the  sun  rose,  the  wind  fell ;  and  very  blue  was 
the  sky,  and  very  dazzling  and  inspiring  the  light,  that 
greeted  the  eyes  of  the  Crampton  people,  as  they  looked 
out  of  their  windows  that  morning.  Fanny  Gilbert 
declared  at  the  breakfast-table  that  she  would  have  a 
sleigh-ride,  and  that  Fred  should  accompany  her.  The 
doctor  informed  her  that  the  family  horse  would  be 
in  use  for  other  and  more  necessary  purposes.  Then 
she  would  take  the  colt.  She  had  already  driven  him, 
and  would  be  delighted  to  drive  him  again.  Her  father 
expostulated,  and  Aunt  Catharine  prophesied  evil ;  but 
they  made  no  impression  on  Fanny,  who  had  deter 
mined  upon  her  ride. 

Accordingly  word  was  sent  to  the  stable,  immedi 
ately  after  breakfast,  to  have  the  colt  and  sleigh  brought 
to  the  door ;  and  Fred  was  muffled  in  the  warmest 
clothing  by  Aunt  Catharine,  while  Fanny  rigged  herself 
for  the  drive.  The  colt  was  led  around,  and  seemed  to 
be  in  quite  as  good  spirits,  under  the  influence  of  the 
bracing  morning  air,  as  his  mistress.  She  went  out, 
patted  him  upon  the  head,  caressed  him,  and  kept  him 
quiet  while  Fred  was  taking  his  seat,  and  then  quietly 
stepped  into  the  sleigh  and  took  the  reins.  His  head 
was  released  by  the  groom,  word  was  given  to  go,  and 
off  flew  the  spirited  creature  like  a  bird. 

Arthur  Blague  stood  at  his  window  while  this  scene 
was  in  progress,  and  witnessed  it  with  vague  uneasiness 
and  apprehension.  As  the  gay  turn-out  passed  his  win- 


AN  AMERICAN  STORY.  417 

dow,  he  felt  moved  to  take  his  hat  and  go  forth  to  see 
the  progress  of  the  riders  as  they  passed  out  of  the 
village.  He  followed  them  with  his  feet  and  his  eye,  as 
they  rapidly  vanished  in  the  distance,  and  then  walked 
on  for  his  own  quiet  enjoyment. 

Wrapped  in  his  thoughts,  and  exhilarated  by  the 
influences  of  the  morning,  he  had  left  the  village  half  a 
mile  behind,  when  he  caught  a  view  upon  a  distant  hill 
of  a  horse  flying  toward  him  at  a  frantic  pace.  He 
stood  still,  and  as  it  approached,  he  felt  sure  that  it  was 
no  other  than  the  half-broken  creature  that  Fanny  had 
driven  off  with.  He  heard  no  outcry,  but  he  saw  people 
run  out,  after  the  horse  and  sleigh  had  passed,  and  lift 
their  hands  in  helpless  fright. 

Already  the  running  horse  was  near  him.  He  saw, 
in  a  moment,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  stop  him 
by  standing  before  him ;  so  he  chose  the  only  practi 
cable  alternative  for  helping  and  saving  his  friends. 
The  colt  dashed  madly  toward  him,  while  he  kept  his 
eye  fixed  upon  the  sleigh.  As  it  came  up,  he  grasped 
the  dasher  by  a  motion  quick  as  lightning,  and  threw 
himself  by  desperate  force  into  the  vehicle.  A  vague 
impression  that  he  was  hurt  upon  the  head,  and  a  wild 
sensation  of  flying  through  the  air,  were  the  subjects  of 
his  first  consciousness.  The  next  moment  he  was  upon 
his  feet,  the  reins  were  jerked  out  of  Fanny's  hands,  and 
then  the  frightened  colt  felt  the  strength  of  a  man  upon 
his  mouth.  Fanny  said  not  a  word  :  not  a  word  was 
spoken  by  any  one.  The  animal  struggled  desperately, 
but  tired  at  last  under  the  steady  powerful  check,  and 
subsided  into  a  short,  broken  canter,  then  came  down  to 
18* 


418  anss  GILBERT'S  CAEEEB: 

a  trot,  and  then  stopped,  trembling  and  reeking,  before 
Dr.  Gilbert's  door. 

Arthur  stepped  out  of  the  sleigh,  while  the  stable- 
boy,  who  was  near,  took  the  colt  by  the  head  ;  and  then 
he  lifted  Fanny  to  the  ground,  so  weak  and  faint  that 
she  could  hardly  stand. 

When  both  had  seen  Fred  safely  on  his  way  to  the 
house,  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes.  She  could  not 
speak.  She  gazed  in  the  face  of  her  preserver,  down 
which,  from  beneath  his  hat,  the  blood  was  flowing 
freely,  and  was  as  dumb  as  if  her  lips  were  frozen. 

"  Fanny  Gilbert,"  said  Arthur,  with  a  firm  voice, 
"  do  not  be  guilty  of  this  foolhardy  business  again  ! 
Allow  me  to  conduct  you  to  the  house." 

She  answered  not  a  word,  turned  upon  her  heel,  and 
left  him.  Arthur  then  went  to  his  home  and  attended 
to  his  wound — his  two  wounds,  in  fact — the  wound  upon 
his  head,  and  the  wound  upon  his  feelings.  He  knew 
he  had  spoken  strongly  ;  but  he  felt  that  the  risk  of  his 
life  had  given  him  warrant  for  it. 

Fanny  entered  the  house,  mortified  and  offended. 
She  was  but  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  strength  after 
all.  It  had  been  demonstrated  to  her  by  one  whose 
strength,  presence  of  mind,  and  courage  had  humiliated 
her,  and  shown  to  her  her  inferiority.  Not  only  this, 
but  he  had  assumed  toward  her  a  tone  of  command, 
such  as  no  man — not  even  her  father — had  assumed  for 
many  years. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  these  thoughts  passed 
away.  Then  came  shame  for  her  lack  of  consideration 
for  one  whose  flowing  blood  testified  to  her  how  much 
she  was  indebted  to  him.  She  had  shown  neither  mag- 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  4:19 

nanimity  nor  gratitude.  She  had  not  even  exhibited 
good  breeding.  She  knew  that  she  must  make  amends  ; 
and,  though  her  pride  restrained  her,  she  determined 
that  she  would.  The  doctor  had  already  walked  over, 
and  ascertained  that  Arthur's  wound  was  a  superficial 
one ;  but  that  could  not  satisfy  Fanny.  Her  personal 
duty  in  the  matter  must  be  done,  or  she  could  never 
meet  him  again  without  shame. 

In  the  afternoon,  Fanny  dressed  herself  with  more 
than  her  accustomed  care,  for  a  formal  call  upon  the 
young  clergyman.  It  was  such  a  visit  as  she  had  never 
undertaken  before.  It  was  a  visit  to  which  she  felt 
urged  by  every  sentiment  of  honor  and  of  self-respect. 
She  knew  that  Arthur  could  misconstrue  no  call  from 
her  that  would  cost  her  humiliation  and  a  confession  of 
wrong.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  con  the  phrases  of 
her  confession  and  her  prayer.  The  feeling  of  a  culprit 
destroyed  her  self-possession,  and  her  heart  beat  heavily 
with  excitement  as  she  lifted  the  knocker  at  Mrs. 
Blague's  door. 

The  smile  of  glad  surprise  with  which  Mrs.  Blague 
greeted  her,  assured  her,  at  once,  that  Arthur  had  not 
mentioned  the  unpleasant  manner  in  which  they  had 
parted  from  each  other  in  the  morning ;  and  the  fact 
made  her  still  more  ashamed  of  herself.  Mrs.  Blague 
was  so  happy  to  think  that  no  one  had  been  hurt.  Ar 
thur's  injury  was  nothing.  It  would  heal  in  a  few  days. 
After  a  few  minutes'  chat,  Fanny  inquired  for  Arthur, 
and  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him. 

Mrs.  Blague  left  the  room,  and  Fanny  was  alone.  The 
doors  were  left  ajar  as  the  mistress  of  the  house  went 
upon  her  errand  ;  and  coming  down  through  the  silence 


420  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

Fanny  heard  the  terrible  "breathing  of  little  Jamie — 
heard  it  until  every  sympathy  of  her  nature  was  bleed 
ing.  Mrs.  Blague  was  absent  for  some  minutes,  and,  in 
the  mean  time,  Fanny  grew  nervous  and  sick  at  heart. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  could  not  remain  in  the  house. 
She  rose  and  closed  the  parlor  door,  but  still  that  same 
stertorous  respiration  pierced  her  ears,  and  haunted  her 
impatient  consciousness. 

At  length  Mrs.  Blague  descended  the  stairs  and  re 
appeared.  She  brought  a  troubled  expression  upon 
her  features,  and  an  embarrassed  manner.  Arthur,  she 
said,  nervously  and  blushing,  would  see  Fanny  in  his 
study.  Fanny  hesitated — then  said,  "  Very  well ;  "  and 
rose  and  followed  Mrs.  Blague  up  stairs.  The  latter 
led  the  way  to  a  distant  door  in  the  back  part  of  the 
house,  opened  it,  turned  Fanny  in,  and  retired. 

Fanny  found  herself  in  a  strange  place.  There  was 
a  small  library  upon  one  side  of  the  room,  in  an  open 
case,  and  upon  another  a  couch  of  singular  construction. 
A  bright  fire  was  burning  upon  the  hearth,  and  there 
was  an  air  of  quiet  comfort  in  the  apartment ;  but  the 
sound  of  that  terrible  breathing  pierced  her  very  soul. 

Arthur  was  seated  at  a  window  with  something  in 
his  lap — something  that  had  the  face  of  a  human  being 
on  which  were  traced  deep  lines  of  distress,  but  the 
form  and  proportions  of  nothing  that  she  had  ever  seen. 
She  knew  it  must  be  Jamie ;  but  it  seemed  impossible 
that  it  could  be.  He  was  dressed  like  a  girl ;  but  from 
the  bottom  of  his  skirt  protruded  a  pair  of  feet,  mis 
shapen,  dwarfed,  and  stiff,  hanging  to  ankles  that  were 
no  larger  than  her  two  fingers.  One  emaciated  hand 
and  arm  hung  at  his  side,  as  loose  and  lifeless  as  the 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  4:21 

sleeve  that  half  hid  it.  The  other  was  swaying  wildly 
in  the  air  with  its  curled  fingers  and  stiff  joints,  under 
the  excitement  produced  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger. 
Nothing  half  so  sickening — nothing  half  so  revolting — 
had  ever  met  her  eyes  before. 

She  nerved  herself  to  meet  the  repulsive  vision,  and 
approached  nearer,  trembling  with  excitement.  The 
little  fellow's  head,  or,  rather,  his  neck,  lay  upon  his 
brother's  arm,  and  not  a  breath  filled  his  chest  that  was 
not  drawn  into  it  by  a  spasm  that  thrilled  Fanny  with 
sympathetic  pain.  She  did  not  see  Arthur's  look  and 
smile  of  greeting  at  all.  Absorbed  by  the  vision  of  the 
afflicted  child,  and  harrowed  in  all  her  sensibilities  by 
its  efforts  for  the  vital  air  upon  which  its  terrible  exist 
ence  fed,  she  could  not  remove  her  eyes  from  the  sad 
and  distressed  little  face.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  she  wiped  them,  and  wiped  them  again.  Her  bosom 
heaved  with  convulsive  sobs  which  only  her  most  power 
ful  efforts  could  control. 

"  Is  he  dying  ?  "  whispered  she  at  length. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  replied  Arthur ;  "  he  is  very  well  to 
day,  and  enjoying  the  sunlight  very  much." 

"  Very  well  1  Why  !  how  long  has  he  been  like 
this  ?  " 

"  Ten  years." 

"  Breathing  like  this  1 " 

"  Oh !  no.  He  has  breathed  like  this  only  five 
years." 

"  Five  years  !  My  God  !  My  God  !  "  and  Fanny 
sat  and  looked  into  Arthur's  eyes  with  vague  incredu 
lity  ;  her  face  as  pale  as  that  of  the  poor  child  before 
her. 


4:22  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK  i 

At  this  moment  the  child  indicated  by  a  motion  of 
his  lips  that  he  wished  to  change  his  position,  and  Ar 
thur  brought  him  forward  so  that  he  could  lean  upon 
his  hand. 

"  What  did  you  mean,  when  you  said  that  he  was 
enjoying  the  sunlight  very  much  to-day  ?  "  Fanny  in 
quired.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  really  enjoys 
any  thing  1 " 

"  Certainly  he  does,"  replied  Arthur,  with  a  full, 
cheery  tone,  that  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  little 
boy,  and  straight  from  his  heart  into  his  face,  illumi 
nating  it  with  a  smile  as  full  of  love  and  heaven  as  earthly 
smile  can  be. 

Arthur  put  him  back  upon  his  arm  again,  and  looked 
fondly  into  his  eyes.  The  emaciated  chest  struggled  on 
for  its  coveted  breath,  but  the  heart  looked  up  through 
those  soft,  dark  eyes  with  unutterable  love  and  grati 
tude. 

"  He  knows  his  friends,"  said  Arthur,  in  his  strong, 
cheerful  way  ;  and  the  wrords  called  out  the  same  sweet 
smile,  and  the  same  look  of  unutterable  gratitude — cer 
tainly  unutterable  by  him,  for  his  lips  had  never  spoken 
a  word  since  the  accident  which  befell  him  ten  years 
before. 

"He's  one  of  the  happiest  little  fellows  in  all 
Crampton,"  Arthur  continued.  "  He  sits  here  with  his 
brother,  and  looks  out  of  the  window,  and  sees  the 
horses  go  by  and  the  children  at  play,  and  keeps  me  in 
the  house,  and  makes  me  study,  and  warms  my  heart 
with  his  precious  smiles,  and  pays  me  ten  thousand 
times  for  all  I  do  for  him.  He's  one  of  the  noblest  and 
happiest  little  fellows  in  the  world." 


AN  AMERICAN   STOKY.  423 

As  Arthur  said  this,  the  boy  repeated  the  old  smile 
— his  sole  return  for  all  the  care  that  brotherly  or 
motherly  love  could  lavish  upon  him.  Fanny  looked 
on  with  wonder — almost  with  awe.  No  such  unselfish 
love — no  such  devotion — had  she  ever  seen  or  dreamed  of. 

"  He  is  more  quiet  at  night  ?  "  said  Funny,  inter 
rogatively. 

"  No." 

"  Who  takes  care  of  him  ? 

« I  do.' 

"  How  can  you  1     How  can  you  sleep  ?  " 

"  Miss  Gilbert,  I  have  not  slept  more  than  an  hour 
at  a  time  for  ten  years." 

"  Arthur  Blague  !  " 

"  Not  more  than  an  hour  at  a  time  for  ten  years.'* 

"  And  yet  you  are  cheerful  and  happy." 

"  So  happy  that  it  seems  to  me  sometimes  that  I 
must  be  dreaming,  and  that,  by  and  by,  I  shall  wake  to 
life's  sterner  realities." 

The  proud  woman  sits  before  the  humble  man  van 
quished.  She  can  imagine  how,  in  the  din  and  heat  of 
battle,  even  she  could  face  death  at  the  cannon's  mouth. 
She  can  imagine  how,  for  a  great  cause,  strong  men  can 
suffer  hardships  for  many  years — for  a  whole  lifetime  ; 
but  this  patient  subjection  of  a  great  life  to  the  wants  of 
a  suffering  child,  for  a  whole  decade,  away  from  the  eye 
of  the  world,  not  only  uncomplaining  but  abundantly 
happy,  rises  in  her  apprehension  into  an  unapproachable 
heroism.  She  thinks  of  her  own  impatience  with  the 
dull  realities  of  her  Crampton  home,  of  all  the  selfish 
pursuits  of  her  life,  and  she  sinks  down  into  a  sickening 
self-contempt. 


424 

It  was  easy  now  for  her  to  ask  Arthur  to  forgive 
ner  for  the  rudeness  of  the  morning ;  and  she  did  it, 
forgetting  all  her  nicely-trimmed  phrases,  and  losing  all 
her  reluctant  shame.  She  thanked  Arthur  for  the  lesson 
he  had  taught  her,  and  in  the  fulness  and  impulsiveness 
of  her  heart  she  told  the  young  man  how  much  she  re 
spected  and  admired  his  self-abnegation. 

As  she  spoke,  Arthur's  eyes  sank  to  the  floor,  and 
tears  filled  them.  When  she  closed,  he  lifted  them  to 
her  face,  and  said :  "  I  thank  God  for  giving  me  the  dis 
cipline  with  which  he  favors  almost  exclusively  your 
sex.  I  do  not  wonder  that  women  are  so  much  purer 
and  better  than  men.  They  have  opportunities  which 
few  men  have.  Of  all  the  heroisms  this  world  has  ever 
known,  those  wrought  out  in  rooms  like  this  are  the 
greatest  and  the  noblest — wrought  out  by  patient,  self- 
denying  women.  God  has  singularly  favored  me  from 
my  birth.  He  has  kept  my  heart  close  to  the  suffering 
always,  and  my  hands  busy  in  humble  service  ;  and  be 
fore  Him,  to-day,  I  declare  that  I  would  not  exchange 
what  I  have  won  in  this  sympathy  and  service  for  the 
wealth  of  a  thousand  worlds  like  this.  This  cup,  of 
which  I  have  been  drinking  daily  and  almost  hourly  for 
many  years,  and  which  seems  so  bitter  to  you,  has  be 
come  inexpressibly  sweet  to  me.  God  help  me  when  I 
shall  be  called  to  put  it  away  from  my  lips  forever  ! 
Always,  in  the  presence  of  this  little  painful  life,  my 
heart  is  melted  down  into  the  tenderest  love  and  pity. 
I  take  it  to  my  arms ;  and  all  my  resentments,  all  my 
pride,  all  my  own  little  trials,  fade  out ;  for  I  know  that 
in  this  little  suffering  boy — this  pure  and  patient  spirit — 


AN   AMEEICAN   STOKY.  425 

I  hold  against  my  heart  the  form  of  Jesus  Christ — of 
Jesus  Christ !  Oh  my  God  !  what  a  privilege  !  " 

As  Arthur  said  this,  his  eyes  were  full  of  the  light 
of  a  dawning  heaven  in  his  soul.  Fanny  looked  at  him 
in  awe  and  wonder.  She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  some 
thing  divine.  The  glories  of  great  secrets  shone  out 
upon  her.  Transcendent  motives  of  life  revealed  them 
selves  dimly  to  her  quickened  moral  vision.  The  sub 
lime  melody  of  another  sphere  breathed  in  the  young 
man's  voice  ;  and  she  faintly  apprehended  the  immortal 
harmonies  into  which  the  discords  of  time  were  swiftly 
resolving  themselves.  In  the  strange  excitement  of  the 
moment,  she  dropped  upon  her  knees  before  Arthur 
and  the  child,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed 
convulsively.  The  gifted,  the  famous,  the  courted,  the 
imperious  Fanny  Gilbert  bowed  humbly  in  the  presence 
of  a  consecrated  life,  under  the  shadow  of  great  thoughts 
that  seemed  to  be  let  down  from  the  heaven  above  her. 

Jamie's  little  misshapen  arm  waved  wildly  back 
and  forth  as  he  looked  up  into  Arthur's  face,  with  an 
anxious,  inquiring  gaze;  and  his  breath  came  harder 
under  the  strange  excitement.  Arthur  could  have  wept 
like  a  child  over  the  scene  before  him.  He  longed  to 
drop  at  her  side,  and  pour  out  his  soul  in  prayer.  His 
firm  lips  quivered,  and  there  rose  to  them,  from  a  soul 
profoundly  moved,  the  words  :  "  Father  in  Heaven ! 
Our  hearts,  and  the  issues  of  our  lives,  are  in  Thy  hands. 
Make  us  children  whom  Thou  shalt  delight  in  ;  engage 
our  hearts  and  our  hands  in  Thy  service,  eradicate  from 
us  all  our  selfishness,  and  lead  us  into  Thy  perfect 
peace ! " 

The  room  was  silent.     The  little  boy's  breath  camo 


426  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

easier  for  the  moment,  and  then  there  rose  from  Fanny's 
lips  a  whispered  "  Amen  !  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  feet  in  the  passage,  and  Fanny- 
rose,  and  resumed  her  seat.  Mrs.  Blague  came  in. 
She  saw  the  marks  of  excitement  and  of  tears  upon  the 
faces  before  her,  and  started  back.  The  question — 
"  What,  mother  1 "  from  Arthur,  arrested  her.  Mrs. 
Blague  had  a  story  of  destitution  to  tell.  There  were 
two  little  boys  down  stairs — children  of  a  widow  who 
had  only  managed  to  live  through  the  long  storm — and 
the  little  boys  had  trudged  through  the  snow  three 
miles  for  help. 

"Go,"  said  Miss  Gilbert. 

"  Give  them  something  to  eat,  and  tell  them  to  wait 
for  me,"  said  Arthur.  Then  he  added :  "  It  is  almost 
time  for  Jamie  to  sleep,  and  then  I  can  go." 

Fanny  sat  for  a  moment  thinking.  Then  she  rose, 
removed  her  hat  and  cloak,  drew  off  her  gloves,  and, 
coming  forward  to  Arthur,  handed  him  a  bank  note  as 
her  portion  of  the  afternoon's  charity.  "  Little  Jamie," 
said  Fanny,  "  will  sit  with  me  while  you  are  absent." 

Little  Jamie  seemed  to  understand  it  all,  and  looked 
up  into  her  face  with  that  old  precious  smile,  which  had 
repaid  so  many  kindnesses  rendered  him  by  others,  and 
which  went  straight  to  her  heart  with  its  freight  of 
pleasure.  Arthur  saw  the  smile,  and  it  pleased  him, 
but  he  had  at  the  moment  a  pleasure  that  rose  above 
even  that.  He  uttered  no  expostulation,  and  made  no 
objection.  There  was  something  in  this  prompt  adop 
tion  of  a  painful  task  on  the  part  of  Miss  Gilbert  that 
thrilled  him  with  a  new  and  strange  delight. 

Fanny  took  her  seat,  and  Jamie,  heavier  than  she 


AN  AMERICAN-   STORY.  427 

had  supposed,  was  laid  in  her  arms.  Arthur  received 
Fanny's  direction  to  call  and  inform  her  family  that  she 
should  not  be  at  home  until  evening,  and  then  departed 
upon  his  long  walk  and  his  errand  of  mercy. 

Mrs.  Blague  took  a  hint  from  Arthur,  and  retired 
from  the  room,  leaving  Fanny  and  the  poor  little  pa 
tient  to  each  other's  society.  The  painful  respiration  of 
little  Jamie  made  her  heart  bleed.  The  door  was 
closed,  and  she  was  alone  with  the  little  one  whom  God 
for  some  great  purpose  had  smitten — alone — how  the 
thought  thrilled  her  ! — with  Jesus  Christ,  in  the  person 
of  that  sick  child.  Inasmuch  as  she  gave  her  sympathy 
and  her  service  to  this  little  one — this  little  unknown 
one — the  least  important  of  all  the  children  around  her 
— she  served  and  sympathized  with  him  !  The  Lord  of 
Heaven  and  Earth  was  in  her  arms  !  The  place  where 
she  sat  was  holy. 

The  little  boy  lay  gasping  upon  her  lap,  looking 
wonderingly  into  her  face,  but  was  evidently  happy. 
He  had  seen  her  pass  the  window,  doubtless,  many 
times,  and  thought  of  her  as  a  grand  woman  to  whom 
he  was  nothing.  As  he  found  himself  in  her  arms — the 
subject  of  her  kind  and  compassionate  smiles  and  her 
tender  care — there  was  a  delighted  expression  upon  his 
face  whenever  she  looked  at  him.  She  did  not  know 
how  far  he  understood  her,  but  she  told  him  long  and 
beautiful  stories  that  she  had  repeated  many  times  to 
the  happy  little  children  in  the  far-off  New  York  home. 
Then  she  sang  to  him — low,  dreamy  tunes  that  soothed 
his  poor  brain  and  nerves,  and  at  last  he  went  to  sleep 
upon  her  bosom. 

Fanny  looked  around  the  room,  and  thought  of  the 


428  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEK: 

weary,  weary  years  that  had  been  spent  there  by  Ar 
thur  Blague,  while  she  was  away,  courting  the  flatteries 
of  the  vulgar,  mingling  with  the  rich  and  the  gay,  or  work 
ing  impatiently  to  win  the  applause  of  the  public  ;  and 
her  life  shrank  into  contemptible  proportions.  Work 
ing  for  herself,  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  a  career  which 
should  give  significance  to  her  and  to  her  life,  she  had 
run  through  life  into  nothingness ;  while  Arthur,  with 
his  heart  turned  from  himself  toward  others,  doing  his 
first  duty  with  patience  and  active  purpose,  stood  front 
ing  God  and  all  God's  universe,  with  a  life  before  him 
as  rich  as  heaven,  and  as  broad  and  long  as  eternity. 

Of  the  silent  prayers  breathed  that  afternoon,  of  the 
resolutions  formed,  and  the  projects  conceived,  her  after 
life  betrayed  the  results. 

It  was  dark  before  Arthur  returned.  Several  times 
during  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Blague  went  in  and  insisted 
upon  relieving  Fanny  of  her  burden,  but  the  proffered 
relief  was  refused.  She  longed  to  be  tired.  She  was 
happy  in  her  weariness.  She  desired,  above  every  thing, 
that  there  might,  through  the  ministry  of  this  invalid 
boy,  come  into  her  heart  a  meek  spirit — a  spirit  of  pa 
tient  self-sacrifice.  Not  till  Arthur  entered  the  room, 
did  she  release  the  little  form  she  had  tended  so  gently 
during  that  long  afternoon.  Then  she  gave  Jamie  to 
his  mother,  resumed  her  hat  and  cloak,  and,  taking  Ar 
thur's  arm  at  the  door,  walked  home,  talking  of  the 
happy  afternoon  she  had  spent,  inquiring  for  the  poor 
family  whom  Arthur  had  visited,  and  giving  him  no 
opportunity  to  utter  a  word. 

That  night  she  was  full  of  her  new  thoughts,  and  so 
was  Arthur,  though  they  were  very  different  from  hers. 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY.  429 

Ah !  if  he  could  see  that  strong  nature  and  that  rich 
culture  of  hers  all  subordinated  and  devoted  to  the  pur 
poses  which  ruled  him,  what  a  companion  would  she 
be  for  him !  Since  the  memorable  evening  he  spent 
with  her  on  the  occasion  of  her  return  from  New  York, 
he  had  felt  compelled,  for  the  sake  of  his  own  peace,  to 
avoid  her  society.  She  had  opened  to  him  a  mind  so 
full  of  treasure — so  facile  and  bright — that  he  left  her 
fascinated ;  but  when  he  calmly  remembered  that,  in 
the  motives  and  purposes  of  his  life,  she  had  no  sym 
pathy,  he  felt  compelled  to  repress  his  rising  interest  in 
her,  and  to  trample  his  new  thoughts  of  her  under  feet. 
The  moment,  however,  that  her  heart  was  toned  up  to 
the  key-note  of  his  own,  he  was  conscious  of  a  sympathy 
that  thrilled  every  fibre  of  his  nature.  He  held  little 
Jamie  all  that  evening  in  a  dream. 

When  Fanny  entered  her  home,  Fred  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  the  doctor  and  Aunt  Catharine  were  sitting 
before  the  deep  wood  fire  after  their  usual  custom — 
Aunt  Catharine  knitting,  and  the  doctor  trying  to  read 
a  newspaper  and  punching  the  forestick.  Fanny  sat 
down  with  an  exceedingly  happy  face,  and  related  the 
story  of  her  afternoon's  experience — bringing  tears  to 
Aunt  Catharine's  eyes,  and  interesting  her  father  very 
deeply.  Neither  had  seen  Jamie  Blague  for  years.  He 
was  felt  to  be  so  painful  a  sight,  that  he  had  been  per 
sistently  kept  from  visitors  ;  and  they  felt  that  Arthur 
had  had  no  idle  motive  in  bringing  Fanny  into  contact 
with  him. 

As  she  closed  her  story,  the  long,  shrill  whistle  of 
the  locomotive  announced  the  incoming  train,  and  the 
delayed  mail.  The  train,  owing  to  the  storm,  had  been 


430 

late  for  several  days.  Dr.  Gilbert  fretted  with  the 
thought  that  he  could  not  get  his  letters  and  papers  un 
til  the  next  morning,  and  Fanny  declared  her  readiness 
to  go  for  the  mail.  This  she  accordingly  did,  and  did 
so  quickly,  that  she  returned  with  her  cheeks  glowing 
with  the  influence  of  the  air  and  the  exercise.  She 
handed  to  her  father  the  letters  directed  to  him,  and, 
retaining  one  for  herself,  bearing  the  familiar  New  York 
post-mark,  sat  down  to  read  it. 

"  Frank  Sargent  is  coming  here  to  spend  the  next 
Sabbath !  Good !  "  exclaimed  Fanny  with  a  burst  of 
delight.  "  What  can  bring  him  here  at  this  time  of 
year  ?  "  she  continued.  "  There  are  none  of  his  lame 
ducks,  that  he  talks  so  much  about,  here,  I  know,  for 
bookstores  are  not  abundant.  What  can  bring  him 
here  ?  "  and  Fanny  laid  down  her  letter  and  said  again, 
"  What  can  bring  him  here  ?  " 

"  Coming  to  see  you,"  suggested  Aunt  Catharine. 

"  Not  he.  He  never  goes  anywhere  except  on  busi 
ness,  and  is  never  from  home  on  Sunday  if  he  can  help 
it.  Something  is  in  the  wind." 

Then  Fanny  read  the  remainder  of  the  letter,  and  a 
postscript  written  by  Mary,  and  pondered  and  wondered 
until  she  went  to  bed.  The  doctor  knew  all  about  it, 
and  chuckled  over  his  secret  comfortably  after  Fanny 
retired. 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  431 

*T-icfliD   ,iOC 


CHAPTEE   XXY. 


IN  WHICH   AETHUR   MAKES  A  GEEAT   MANY   NEW   FEIEND9,  AND 
LOSES   THE   MOST   PEECIOUS   FEIEND   HE   HAS. 

SATURDAY  night  brought  the  expected  visitor,  and 
the  expected  visitor  brought  with  him  his  accustomed 
fund  of  talk  and  high  animal  spirits,  besides  a  couple  of 
friends,  whom  he  left  at  the  hotel,  and  whom  he  did  not 
speak  of  to  Fanny.  Fanny  questioned  him  about  his 
family,  inquired  after  Mr.  Kilgore,  and  finally  spoke  of 
"  Rhododendron."  It  had  been  a  great  success,  and 
continued  to  be.  Then  Fanny  wanted  to  know  what 
brought  him  to  Crampton.  He  had  come,  he  said,  to 
pay  to  her  her  copyright  on  the  books  thus  far  sold, 
and  to  urge  her  to  write  another  book.  Any  thing  she 
would  write  now,  the  public  would  read.  A  wild  sweep 
of  the  old  ambition  passed  through  her  soul,  but  it  died 
as  the  new  motives  which  had  found  foothold  there 
asserted  themselves.  No  —  she  should  write  no  more 
books  —  at  least,  not  now,  nor  soon.  Frank  Sargent 
affected  great  disappointment  ;  he  was  "  sorry  to  lose 
his  journey,"  and  so  on,  through  a  large  amount  of  in 
nocent  dissembling. 


432 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  doctor,  with  an  air  of  affected 
chagrin  and  disappointment,  "  I  understand  that  Arthur 
Blague  is  to  preach  to-morrow.  Sorry  you  can't  hear 
our  regular  minister." 

"  What  a  pity  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Sargent. 

Fanny  bit  her  lip.  "  I  think  you  will  have  no  rea 
son  to  regret  the  change,"  said  she. 

"  Does  he  amount  to  any  thing  ?  "  inquired  Frank 
Sargent. 

"If  you  wish  to  know  my  opinion  of  him,"  replied 
Fanny,  "  it  is  that  he  amounts  to  more  than  all  the 
Wiltons  there  are  in  the  world.  I  certainly  know  of 
no  man  in  New  York  whom  I  consider  his  equal  in 
natural  gifts,  in  natural  eloquence,  or" — and  Fanny's 
lips  hesitated  to  pronounce  judgment  on  a  subject  not 
long  used  to  them — "  in  Christian  piety." 

"  That  is  your  candid  opinion,  is  it  1 "  said  Mr.  Sar 
gent,  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  of  the  eye. 

"  That  is  my  candid  opinion.  What  do  you  look  at 
me  in  that  way  for  1 " 

"  Nothing  ;  "  and  then  Frank  Sargent  looked  in  the 
doctor's  face,  and  they  both  indulged  in  a  hearty  laugh, 
which  left  Fanny  very  deeply  puzzled. 

Then  Mr.  Sargent  went  on  plying  Fanny  with  ques 
tions  with  relation  to  the  young  minister  ;  drawing  her 
out  in  regard  to  his  social  qualities ;  exciting  her  into 
defending  him  from  some  disparaging  remark,  and  keep 
ing  her  engaged  in  talking  about  him.  At  last,  she 
went  into  his  history,  and  closed  with  the  narrative  of 
her  experience  in  the  study.  Then  he  inquired  about 
Jamie,  and  asked  whether  it  was  thought  that  he  could 
live  long,  and  manifested  such  a  marked  interest  in  the 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  433 

young  man  and  his  affairs,  that  Fanny  became  still  more 
puzzled  over  the  matter.  He  explained  himself  by  re 
marking  that  he  had  heard  Mary  talk  so  much  about 
Arthur  that  he  felt  quite  interested  in  him.  In  fact,  he 
was  glad,  on  the  whole,  he  was  going  to  preach  on  the 
morrow.  Mary  would  be  glad  to  hear  from  Arthur, 
and  to  learn  what  kind  of  a  figure  he  made  in  the  pulpit. 
Then  Mr.  Sargent  and  the  doctor  looked  one  another  in 
the  face  again,  and  laughed  as  before. 

Fanny  was  much  inclined  to  be  offended.  "  Excel 
lent  joke  !  isn't  it,  now  1 "  said  she. 

As  Mr.  Sargent  had  pushed  matters  far  enough,  he 
changed  the  subject,  and  spent  the  remainder  of  the 
evening  in  a  rattling  conversation  on  a  great  variety  of 
topics,  and,  at  last,  went  to  bed. 

After  breakfast  and  family  devotions  the  next  morn 
ing,  Mr.  Sargent  announced  his  determination  to  go 
over  to  the  hotel,  and  see  if  there  were  not  somebody 
there  whom  he  knew,  promising  to  return  in  season  to 
accompany  Fanny  to  church.  He  found  at  the  hotel 
his  brace  of  New  York  friends — saints  of  his  own  pat 
tern — specimens  of  young  America  sanctified — one  of 
them  a  flashy  gentleman,  with  a  moustache  on  his  lip, 
and  a  cigar  under  it,  and  the  other  an  overworked,  lean, 
wiry  little  man  of  thirty-five,  prefaced  by  a  violent  dia 
mond  breastpin. 

"  Made  any  discoveries  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Frank  Sar 
gent. 

"  Yes,  we've  been  pumping  some — all  right  as  far 
as  it  goes — very  popular — must  draw,  according  to  all 
accounts/'  replied  the  little  man  with  the  breastpin. 

"Messenger   breed,"  responded  the  moustache  and 
19 


MISS  GILBERTS  CAREER: 

cigar —  strong,  rangy,  large,  good  bottom,  handsome, 
speed  enough  for  all  practical  purposes,  and  kind. 
Found  out  any  thing,  Sargent  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Sargent,  "  I  have  had  a  talk  with 
the  smartest  woman  in  New  Hampshire — with  the 
writer  of  *  Rhododendron.'  I  would  give  a  hundred 
dollars  to  have  you  hear,  as  she  told  it  to  me,  the  story 
of  this  man's  life."  Then  Frank  Sargent  went  on  in  his 
most  eloquent  style,  to  repeat  the  story,  and  it  certainly 
lost  very  little  in  passing  through  his  lips. 

Let  no  profane  person  suppose  that  these  men — 
talking  so  lightly,  so  jocularly,  in  fact,  about  the 
young  minister — were  men  who  held  his  office  in 
low  esteem,  or  regarded  his  work  with  indifference. 
They  were  business  men — Christian  business  men — 
whose  efficiency  and  practical  devotion  in  pushing  on  all 
Christian  enterprises  in  their  city  home,  had  secured  for 
them  the  appointment  to  the  mission  in  which  we  find 
them  engaged.  They  were  workers  and  givers,  with 
busy  hands  and  tongues,  and  open  purses.  Relieved 
from  the  cares  of  business  for  the  time,  and  thrown  to. 
gether  under  such  pleasant  circumstances  away  from 
home,  their  hearts  were  light,  indeed,  but  they  were 
prepared  to  attend  the  ministrations  of  the  day  with 
tractable  hearts,  and  to  judge  of  them  with  minds  ren 
dered  keen  and  catholic  by  large  intercourse  with  the 
world  and  a  practical  knowledge  of  its  wants.  A  saint  in 
a  moustache  had  never  been  seen  in  Crampton,  and  lively 
religious  people,  in  smart  overcoats  and  good  boots, 
were  by  no  means  common,  so  that  the  errand  of  this 
trio  was  not  likely  to  be  suspected  by  the  multitude. 

"Is  he  matched1?"    inquired  Moustache,  intent  on 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  435 

keeping  up  his  equine  figure.     (Moustache  drove  a  very 
fine  horse  at  home,  and  loved  him.) 

"  Well — doubtful,"  replied  Mr.  Frank  Sargent. 

"  Ought  to  be.  Girls  will  all  be  after  him.  Besides, 
it  will  take  a  double  team  to  do  our  work." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  responded  the  breastpin,  very 
decidedly.  "  All  decent  men  get  married,  of  course ; 
and  any  man  who  is  good  enough  to  be  a  minister  will 
attend  to  all  his  Christian  duties,  in  time."  (Breastpin 
married  young,  and  was  the  father  of  six  children.) 

"The  old  man  had  got  it  all  fixed,  had  he?"  in 
quired  Moustache. 

"  Every  thing  arranged,"  replied  Mr.  Sargent,  "  and 
nobody  suspects  any  thing.  If  we  don't  like  him,  all 
we've  got  to  do  is  to  go  back,  and  take  a  new  trail ;  and 
nobody  here  will  be  the  wiser  for  our  visit.  If  we  do 
like  him,  why,  then  we'll  try  to  make  him  like  us — 
that's  all." 

After  an  hour  spent  with  his  New  York  associates, 
the  first  morning  bells  rang  out  from  the  church  bel 
fries,  and  Frank  Sargent  walked  back  to  the  house  of 
Dr.  Gilbert,  to  fulfil  his  pledge  to  Fanny.  When  Ar 
thur  Blague  mounted  the  pulpit  that  morning,  there 
were  three  strangers  in  the  church,  who  not  only  meas 
ured  his  form  and  gait,  but  who  noticed  the  manner  in 
which  his  hair  was  parted,  examined  his  neck-tie,  scanned 
his  linen,  and  criticized  the  squeak  of  his  boots.  These 
strangers  did  not  sit  together,  but  were  distributed  in 
different  parts  of  the  church — one  at  the  extreme  rear, 
for  the  better  measurement  of  the  power  of  his  voice. 

Arthur  rose,  and  invoked  the  divine  blessing  in 
calm  words  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  depths  of  his 


436  MISS    GILBEKT'S    CAREER  I 

soul,  as  if— conscious  of  his  weakness  and  his  depend 
ence  at  all  times — he  could  absolutely  do  nothing  then 
and  there  without  aid.  "When  he  pronounced  his 
"  Amen  "  over  the  hushed  assembly,  Moustache  looked 
at  Breastpin  and  gave  a  slow  wink,  and  Breastpin  re 
sponded  with  a  little  nod.  Arthur  had  made  an  im 
pression.  As  for  Frank  Sargent,  he  forgot  all  about 
his  mission  and  his  New  York  associates,  in  his  interest 
in  the  services  of  the  morning  ;  and  Fanny,  who  sat  by 
his  side,  was  no  less  interested  than  he.  The  sermon 
was  well  calculated  to  make  critics  forget  to  criticize, 
because  it  was  written  to  accomplish  a  purpose  infinitely 
higher  than  the  satisfaction  of  a  critical  judgment.  It 
was  a  revelation  of  the  great  motives  of  a  great  life ; 
and  the  audience  was  moved  by  it  as  a  forest  bows  to 
the  breath  of  a  mighty  wind.  They  felt  its  power,  for 
getting  for  the  moment  over  what  sea  it  came — on  what 
cloud  it  rode — and  conscious  only  that  it  was  from 
heaven. 

After  the  morning  exercises  were  finished,  the  New 
Yorkers  quietly  took  their  way  to  the  hotel  without 
speaking  to  each  other,  and  met  in  their  common  parlor. 
Moustache  was  in  a  state  of  profound  excitement,  which 
he  undertook  to  modify  in  some  degree  by  lighting  a 
cigar.  "  I  told  you  he  was  Messenger  stock,"  said  he — 
"  Gospel  Messenger,  and  no  mistake." 

"  Well,  on  the  whole,  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Sargent,  through  whose  influence  entirely  his 
friends  on  the  "  Committee  of  Supply "  had  visited 
Crampton. 

"What's  the  use  of  asking?"  said  Breastpin. 
"  What  prayers !  Now  that  man  prays  for  what  he 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  4:37 

wants,  and  not  for  what  he  thinks  he  ought  to  want. 
What  is  a  prayer  good  for  that  scatters  all  over  Robin 
Hood's  barn  ? " 

"  Well,  now — that's  so  !  "  responded  Moustache. 
"  There  are  some  prayers  that  seem  to  me  like  a  man 
out  with  a  lantern  in  the  night,  trying  to  find  an 
1  Amen,'  and  looking  into  all  the  dark  corners,  and 
poking  over  the  stones,  and  going  up  hills,  and  diving 
into  valleys,  and  climbing  up  trees,  and  rummaging 
things  miscellaneously,  till  he  finds  it,  if  it  takes  him  a 
week.  You  can't  follow  such  a  prayer  as  that.  You 
always  go  to  looking  after  the  '  Amen '  yourself,  and 
find  it  first,  sure." 

"  And  then,"  said  Breastpin,  "  those  prayers  that 
seem  to  be  chapters  out  of  the  Cyclopedia  of  Useful 
Information." 

"For  the  benefit  of  the  Deity,"  suggested  Mr. 
Frank  Sargent. 

"  Now  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  in  this  fellow," 
resumed  Moustache.  "  Straightforward  talk — lifted  right 
up  from  the  lower  shelf.  I  looked  at  him,  and  cried  all 
the  time.  He's  a — he's  a  magnificent  man,  and  we 
might  just  as  well  make  out  a  programme  of  exercises 
for  his  ordination,  as  any  way.  Sargent,  draw  up  a 
call.  What's  the  use  of  being  lazy  ?  " 

Mr.  Sargent  and  Breastpin  laughed.  "  First  catch 
your  hare,"  said  the  former. 

"Previously  having  your  cooking  utensils  ready," 
responded  Moustache. 

"  There's  time  enough  for  all  these  things,"  said 
Frank  Sargent,  and,  taking  up  his  hat,  he  left  his  corn 
ed  s&d^  toll  8t«i  &&m  $&$£  ^ 


438  MISS  GILBERT'S  CABEEK  : 

panions  in  a  very  happy  frame  of  mind,  and  walked 
over  to  dine  with  Dr.  Gilbert. 

The  afternoon  services  passed  off  like  those  of  the 
morning,  confirming  the  good  impression  already  pro 
duced,  and  convincing  the  New  York  "  Committee  of 
Supply  "  that  if  they  could  supply  such  material  as  they 
had  discovered  to  their  congregation  at  home,  it  would 
be  the  best  thing  in  their  power  to  do.  In  the 
evening,  Frank  Sargent  asked  liberty  of  Dr.  Gilbert 
and  Fanny  to  invite  his  New  York  friends  over ;  and 
they  came,  passing  the  evening  in  the  discussion  of  the 
sermons  and  the  young  man  who  had  preached  them. 
Fanny  had  already  begun  to  suspect  the  nature  of  their 
errand,  and  lent  her  tongue  gladly  in  favor  of  her 
friend. 

Before  they  retired,  it  was  arranged  that  the  whole 
party  should  dine  with  Dr.  Gilbert  the  next  day,  and 
that  Arthur  should  be  invited  to  meet  them,  so  that  they 
could  have  an  opportunity  of  judging  of  his  social 
qualities. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  on  Monday,  A  rthur  Blague 
wralked  into  Dr.  Gilbert's  parlor,  and  was  presented  to 
the  New  Yorkers.  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  had  already 
called  upon  him  as  an  old  acquaintance.  Fanny,  con 
scious  of  her  power  to  engage  the  conversational  facul 
ties  of  her  friend,  quietly  took  the  business  into  her  own 
hands,  while  the  New  Yorkers,  with  a  modesty  quite 
unusual  with  them,  became  listeners,  so  far  as  possible. 
Ah,  Fanny  !  She  did  not  dream  that  those  keen,  quiet, 
critical  eyes  were  examining  her  qualifications  for  a 
minister's  wife,  all  the  time.  It  did  not  enter  her 
thought,  at  all,  that  above  that  dark  moustache  was  an 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY. 

eye  that  was  measuring  her  power  to  "  match  "  that  of 
Arthur.  It  was  a  very  pretty  exhibition,  and  abun 
dantly  satisfactory.  A  heartier,  happier  tableful  of 
friends  had  never  gathered  about  Dr.  Gilbert's  board. 

Dessert  came  on,  and  then  Dr.  Gilbert,  according 
to  previous  arrangement,  said :  "  Arthur,  these  gentle 
men  came  from  New  York  to  hear  you  preach  yester 
day,  with  a  view  to  giving  you  a  call  to  a  new  church 
which  they  have  been  instrumental  in  gathering  in  their 
city.  We  have  fairly  entrapped  you,  and  now  I  shall 
let  them  speak  for  themselves." 

Arthur  smiled.  No  shadow  of  surprise  passed  over 
his  features.  He  was  as  cool  and  collected  as  possible. 

"  You  receive  the  news  as  if  it  were  an  every -day 
affair,"  said  Miss  Gilbert. 

"  It  is  not  news,"  Arthur  replied. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  My  good  friend  Tom  Lampson,  the  conductor,  who 
said,"  continued  Arthur,  laughing,  "  that  he  could  tell  a 
pack  of  minister-hunters  as  readily  as  he  could  a  bridal 
party." 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  at  the  expense  of 
the  c<  pack  ;  "  the  "  pack  "  itself  joining  very  heartily 
in  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Sargent,  "  as  we  understand  one 
another,  we  may  as  well  proceed  to  business."  Then 
he  revealed  the  nature  of  the  enterprise  in  which  he  pro 
posed  to  engage  Arthur  Blague.  He  and  his  compan 
ions  had  been  members  of  an  old,  overgrown,  lazy 
church,  full  of  inert  material,  and  so  crowded  with  men 
and  money  that  it  could  not  stir.  In  fact,  it  had  be 
come  a  very  slow  institution — one  in  which  they  could 


440 

not  feel  at  home  at  all.  They  wanted  more  work,  and 
had  accordingly  swarmed,  with  a  large  number  of  the 
younger  portion  of  the  church  and  congregation,  and, 
"  roping  in  "  a  goodly  company  of  others,  belonging  to 
different  societies,  had  built  a  new  church  edifice,  organ 
ized,  and  got  ready  for  operations.  They  had  all 
"  bled  "  profusely,  and  proposed  to  bleed  to  any  desir 
able  extent  for  the  success  of  the  enterprise.  All  they 
wanted  was  a  minister.  There  were  plenty  of  minis 
ters  in  the  market,  but  they  were  all  slow.  Mr.  Sar 
gent,  for  himself,  and  on  behalf  of  his  associates,  wished 
to  express  his  entire  satisfaction  with  the  young  man 
who  preached  for  them  the  previous  day,  and  to  insti 
tute  some  practicable  measures  for  getting  him  to  New 
York. 

Thus  the  business  was  opened  for  discussion.  There 
was  no  more  levity  among  the  members  of  the  deeply 
interested  group.  The  "  Committee  of  Supply  "  had 
made  its  decision,  and  they  were  ready  to  talk  in  earnest. 
They  did  talk  in  earnest.  Arthur  presented  the  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  his  leaving  Crampton  for  the  present,  and 
they  set  themselves  vigorously  to  work  to  bear  them 
down.  At  last,  he  felt  himself  compelled  to  compromise 
with  them.  He  would  accept  no  call  from  them ;  but  if, 
in  the  course  of  the  winter,  he  could  leave  his  brother  long 
enough,  he  would  preach  for  them  a  few  Sabbaths ;  and 
then,  if  they  did  not  change  their  mind,  and  the  congre 
gation  seconded  them,  he  would  agree  to  consider  a  call. 

Miss  Gilbert  was  ready  in  a  moment.  "  You  can 
go  any  time  when  you  will,  and  I  will  assist  your 
mother  in  taking  care  of  Jamie,"  said  she. 

At  this,  they  all  rose  from  the  table,  and  returned 


AN  AMERICAN   STORY. 

to  the  parlor.  There  Mr.  Sargent  took  Arthur  by  the 
button-hole,  and  enlarged  upon  the  desirableness  of  the 
situation  to  which  they  invited  him,  and  the  field  of  use 
fulness  that  would  be  opened  to  him,  assuring  him  that 
he  would  find  in  Moustache  and  Breastpin  a  pair  of  the 
most  splendid  workers  in  New  York.  Then  Moustache 
took  him  by  the  button-hole,  and  assured  him  that  he 
would  look  after  his  health,  giving  him  an  airing  every 
day  on  the  Avenue,  if  he  liked  it,  after  a  horse  that  had 
constitutional  objections  to  being  passed  on  the  way. 
He  closed  by  assuring  him  that  Frank  Sargent  and 
Breastpin  were  the  most  efficient  and  desirable  men  in 
a  church  that  it  was  possible  to  conceive.  When  Mous 
tache  relinquished  the  young  minister,  the  vacated  but 
ton-hole  was  seized  by  Breastpin,  who  told  him  how 
reluctantly  he  had  come  to  see  him,  how  much  and  how 
happily  he  had  been  disappointed,  how  sorry  he  was  to 
leave  Crampton,  how  he  could  not  go  unless  Arthur 
accompanied  him,  how  he  hoped  at  no  distant  day  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Arthur  Blague — their 
new  minister's  wife — how  he — Breastpin — must  not  be 
taken  by  Arthur  as  a  fair  specimen  of  the  church,  what 
a  fine  building  they  had  to  worship  in,  and  how,  had  it 
not  been  for  Frank  Sargent  and  Moustache,  the  enter 
prise  never  could  have  succeeded  in  the  world. 

There  was  no  escaping  these  importunities  without  a 
definite  promise  of  some  kind,  and  it  was  finally  given. 
Fanny  having  agreed  to  share  with  Mrs.  Blague  the 
care  of  the  invalid  boy,  Arthur  promised  to  be  in  New 
York  on  the  following  Sabbath,  and  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  in  the  city,  meeting  the  people,  examining  for 
himself  the  condition  of  their  enterprise,  and  leaving 
19* 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK: 

all  permanent  arrangements  for  the  future  to  the  indica 
tions  of  Providence. 

It  lacked  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  the  time  for 
the  departure  of  the  afternoon  train.  No  sooner  was 
the  decision  declared,  than  the  New  Yorkers,  having  ac 
complished  their  business,  made  their  hasty  adieus. 
Frank  Sargent  ran  up  stairs,  packed  his  valise,  came 
down,  kissed  Fanny  and  Aunt  Catharine,  said  "  God 
bless  you  "  to  the  doctor,  and  ran  for  the  station-house. 
Moustache  and  Breastpin  flew  to  the  hotel,  paid  their 
bills,  seized  their  carpet-bags  and  shawls,  ran  to  the 
depot,  swung  themselves  upon  the  last  platform  as  the 
train  moved  off,  greeted  Frank  Sargent  with  a  cordial 
"  hullo  !  "  as  they  took  the  seats  he  had  reserved  for  them, 
and  all  commenced  their  homeward  journey  in  high  spirits. 
They  talked  all  the  way  to  New  York,  Moustache  leaving 
the  car  several  times  on  the  road,  and  coming  back  from 
certain  interesting  conferences  with  the  baggage-master, 
smelling  of  smoke  ;  and  the  next  morning  all  were  im 
mersed  in  business,  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  occurred. 

They  left  their  acquaintances  in  Crampton — espe 
cially  Arthur  Blague — with  sufficient  food  for  reflection. 
To  tell  the  truth,  his  heart  leaped  within  him  as  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  work  thus  opened  to  him.  To 
take  his  stand  in  the  metropolis  of  the  country,  among 
the  best  minds  of  the  age,  where  mental  food  and  stim 
ulus  abounded,  seemed  to  him  a  great  privilege.  But 
little  Jamie !  What,could  he  do,  if  tied  to  him  there  ? 

Arthur  had  seen  enough  of  men  to  know  himself. 
He  had  no  misgivings  touching  his  power  to  sustain  him 
self  among  the  competitions  of  city  life.  The  only  con 
siderations  that  drew  him  back  from  entering  the  door 


AN   AMERICAN    STOKY.  443 

thus  invitingly  thrown  open  to  him  related  to  his  brother 
and  his  mother.  He  could  do  what  he  had  agreed  to 
do,  at  least,  and  God  would  take  care  of  the  rest. 

Toward  the  last  of  the  week,  Arthur  having  made 
his  arrangements,  left  Crampton  for  New  York.  He 
tried  to  explain  to  Jamie  that  he  should  be  gone  for  a 
long,  long  time ;  and  Jamie  either  understood  his  lan 
guage,  or  correctly  interpreted  his  affectionate  parting. 
The  little  fellow  seemed  to  be  sadly  impressed,  but  tried 
to  smile  upon  Fanny  as  she  took  him  in  her  arms.  He 
watched  his  brother  from  the  window,  as  he  walked  to 
the  station-house ;  and  when  he  disappeared,  went  into 
a  paroxysm  of  difficult  breathing  that  quite  frightened 
Fanny. 

It  would  oe  weary  work  to  tell  of  the  weary  work 
of  the  following  month,  in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Blague. 
As  the  days  came  and  went,  and  Arthur  did  not  return, 
the  invalid  boy  seemed  to  sink  into  sick  and  hopeless 
discouragement.  The  voice  of  a  man  in  the  hall  below 
—the  sudden  opening  of  a  door — would  excite  his  ex 
pectations  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  would  shut  his 
eyes  to  hide  his  emotions.  When  the  train  came  in, 
day  after  day,  and  he  saw  the  passengers  passing  through 
the  street,  his  straining,  eager  eyes  would  watch  until 
all  passed  out  of  sight ;  and  then  they  would  close  again, 
and  the  breath  that  had  been  half-suspended  would  come 
with  redoubled  difficulty. 

To  Fanny,  these  weeks  were  weeks  of  trial.  A  sin 
gle  afternoon  spent  with  the  boy  when  she  first  saw 
him  had  tired  her ;  but  when,  day  after  day,  she  sub 
jected  herself  to  his  service,  the  task  often  seemed  un 
endurable.  Yet  she  felt  that  the  discipline  was  necessary 


4:4:4:  MISS    GILBERTS    CAREER  I 

to  her.  She  desired,  above  all  things,  to  seat  herself 
within  the  secret  of  Arthur  Blague's  life  and  strength. 
She  longed  to  forget  herself  in  devotion  to  others,  until 
benevolence  should  become  the  supreme  expression  of 
her  life.  As  the  days  went  by,  she  felt  her  task  grow 
ing  easier.  She  was  with  the  invalid  during  the  day, 
but  at  night  she  relinquished  him  to  his  mother,  and 
she  could  not  deny  to  herself  the  fact  that,  every  even 
ing,  as  she  walked  homeward,  she  had  won  peace  and 
satisfaction  from  the  toil  of  the  day.  She  felt,  too, 
springing  up  in  her  heart,  a  love  for  the  afflicted  boy 
which  she  had  never  expected  to  feel ;  and  learned  how, 
out  of  compassion,  and  pity,  and  ministry,  love  for  the 
forbidding  is  born. 

At  last,  a  letter  was  received  from  Arthur  by  Mrs. 
Blague,  fixing  the  day  for  his  return.  They  did  not  try 
to  explain  the  matter  to  Jamie  until  the  welcome  morn, 
ing,  and  then  they  told  him  that  Arthur  would  be  at 
home  before  night.  The  news  wrought  a  great  change 
in  him.  He  was  excited,  and  exceedingly  happy. 
Smiles  played  upon  his  face  all  day,  and  his  mother 
testified  that  he  was  more  comfortable  than  he  had  been 
for  years.  His  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  when  the 
long  whistle  of  the  incoming  train  reached  his  ear,  he 
became  almost  hysterical  with  joy.  As  the  passengers 
left  the  train,  he  caught  a  distant  view  of  Arthur's  form, 
and  the  little,  misshapen  arm  swung  wildly  to  and  fro 
with  his  intense  excitement.  He  watched  him  as  he  ap 
proached,  his  little  chest  laboring  heavily  for  breath, 
and  when  he  heard  his  steps  in  the  hall,  he  sank  back 
upon  Fanny's  arm  to  wait  the  coming  of  the  form  and 
face  for  which  he  had  pined  so  long.  Arthur  entered 


AN    AMERICAN    STORY.  445 

the  room,  threw  himself  upon  his  knees  by  the  side 
of  the  boy,  took  him  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  his 
face  to  his.  There  he  held  him  for  a  moment,  arid  then 
suddenly  put  him  away.  The  cords  of  life — so  long 
tense — had  snapped.  A  heavenly  smile  was  on  the  face 
of  the  child,  but  the  laboring  muscles  were  still.  Jamie 
had  died  of  joy.  Happy  death  !  Thrice  happy  in  that 
his  mission  to  the  earth  was  fulfilled  ! 

When  manhood,  in  the  pride  of  its  power,  and  in 
the  midst  of  its  unfinished  enterprises,  is  suddenly  laid 
in  the  arms  of  death,  and  loving  women  and  little  chil 
dren  are  left  without  a  protector,  grief  and  pity  are  called 
to  their  profoundest  exercise.  When  budding  woman 
fades  like  a  flower,  and  is  carried  out  to  sleep  with 
flowers  upon  her  bosom,  those  among  whom  she  grew 
are  touched  with  an  ineffably  tender  sympathy  and  sor 
row.  Grief  and  tears  for  such  as  these  the  world  under 
stands  ;  yet  when  some  poor  sufferer — some  patient 
bearer  of  the  cross,  climbing  painfully  up  the  rising 
years— gives  up  the  ghost,  no  darkness  comes  upon  the 
world,  and  no  veil  is  rent  in  the  temple  of  the  world's 
heart.  Men  say,  "  We  cannot  weep.  It  would  be 
wrong  to  weep.  We  should  rejoice  that  a  life  so  full 
of  pain  is  ended — that  suffering  is  swallowed  up  of  ever 
lasting  peace  and  joy." 

This  was  what  the  people  of  Crampton  said  about 
the  death  of  Jamie  Blague.  A  hundred  pairs  of  lungs 
breathed  easier  because  his  lungs  had  ceased  to  labor. 
A  hundred  hearts  beat  more  freely  and  happily  because 
his  had  stopped.  Those  who  loved  Arthur,  were  glad 
little  Jamie  was  dead — not  because  they  were  hard 
hearted,  but  because  they  were  tender-hearted. 


446  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAEEEK: 

But  to  Arthur  the  extinction  of  this  painful  little  life 
was  like  the  going  down  of  the  sun.  It  left  him  in 
darkness.  In  the  first  hour  of  his  grief,  he  held  him  in 
his  arms,  kissing  his  lifeless  lips,  and  breathing  out  upon 
him  the  wealth  of  his  affection  in  endearing  names  and 
tender  expressions.  Mrs.  Blague  was  helpless  under 
this  new  calamity — the  more  so  from  the  fact  that  Ar 
thur  was  unmanned.  Fanny  regarded  the  scene  with 
mingled  awe  arid  grief.  She  recognized,  at  once,  the 
hand  of  Providence  in  the  event.  The  boy  had  done  his 
work  for  Arthur  and  for  her  ;  and  when  it  was  finished, 
God  had  taken  him.  What  a  teacher  had  he  been  to 
her  ! 

Finding  herself  the  only  one  able  to  perform  the 
necessary  offices  relating  to  the  child,  she  prepared  his 
couch,  and  then,  kneeling  before  Arthur,  she  gently  dis 
engaged  the  little  body  from  his  hands,  and  bore  it  to 
the  pillow  on  which  it  had  breathed  out  so  many  nights 
of  pain.  There  she  smoothed  his  hair,  and  composed 
his  limbs,  and  left  him,  with  the  same  sweet  smile  upon 
his  features  that  lighted  his  passage  into  the  land  of  rest. 
Returning  to  her  home,  she  bore  the  sad  news  of  the 
event  to  Aunt  Catharine  and  the  other  members  of  the 
family.  In  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  the  facts  had 
found  their  way  into  the  village,  and  willing  hands  came 
in  abundance  to  assist  the  family  in  their  sad  emergency. 

"When  Fanny  returned  to  the  room  of  death,  she 
found  Arthur  kneeling  at  his  brother's  bedside,  gazing 
into  the  sweet,  dead  face.  He  rose  to  his  feet  as  she 
approached,  and  said,  "  Let  us  go  down." 

The  will  that  had  submitted  so  long  and  so  many 
times  to  the  Will  supreme,  had  bowed,  and  he  was  calm. 


AN   AMERICAN    STOEY.  447 

The  first  shock  past,  there  was  to  be  no  repining.  He 
had  gone  down  into  the  deep  waters  of  grief,  with  the 
little  foundered  bark,  but  had  risen  and  laid  hold  upon 
the  life-boat.  The  sea  still  tossed  beneath  him;  and 
rent  and  broken  affections  were  strewn  upon  its  surface, 
but  heaven  was  blue  above  him,  and  full  of  stars. 

The  next  day  a  little  coffin  was  brought  into  the 
house,  and  the  day  following  that,  there  was  a  funeral. 
The  house  was  filled  in  every  part,  and  though  the  air 
was  biting,  and  the  snow  was  drifting  outside,  the  yard 
was  crowded  with  people.  After  a  prayer  was  made 
and  a  hymn  sung,  Arthur  himself  read  from  Paul's  let 
ter  to  the  Corinthians  those  wonderful  revelations  touch 
ing  the  resurrection  of  the  body  which  have  been  re 
peated  in  the  ears  of  so  many  Christian  mourners.  It 
was  with  a  voice  full  of  emotion  that  he  pronounced  the 
words  :  "  It  is  sown  in  corruption,  it  is  raised  in  incor- 
ruption  ;  it  is  sown  in  dishonor,  it  is  raised  in  glory ; 
it  is  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power." 

"  I  thank  God  for  little  Jamie,"  said  Arthur,  as  he 
closed  the  book.  "  His  feet  were  taken  from  him  here 
that  mine  might  be  trained  to  walk  in  the  ways  of  right 
eousness.  His  hands  were  palsied  that  mine  might  be 
taught  to  give  themselves  in  service  to  the  weak  and  the 
helpless.  His  body  was  racked  with  pain  that  I  might 
drink  deeply  of  the  cup  of  self-denial ;  but  the  little 
body — so  feeble  and  misshapen — which  we  sow  to-day, 
shall  rise  in  immortal  power  and  beauty.  Then  shall  I 
have  him  in  my  arms  again,  and  then  shall  we,  his  lips 
unsealed,  thank  God  together." 

Arthur  expressed  his  gratitude  to  the  assembly  for 
the  sympathy  that  had  been  extended  to  his  mother  and 


4:48  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEK  : 

to  him,  and  for  the  multiplied  acts  of  kindness  rendered 
to  the  little  sleeper  during  his  painful  life.  He  intimated 
that  his  continuance  in  Crampton  would  be  of  short  du 
ration — that  the  work  of  life  for  which  he  had  been  so 
long  in  preparation  would  soon  be  commenced  in 
another  home.  The  only  obstacle  to  his  removal  God 
had  taken  out  of  the  way,  and  he  accepted  the  event  as 
the  indication  of  his  duty. 

The  little  boy  was  borne  out  to  the  graveyard,  to 
take  his  place  by  the  side  of  his  father  and  the  little 
brothers  and  sisters  who  had  long  been  dust.  The  sand 
was  shovelled  back,  and  as  the  silent  multitude  moved 
away,  and  separated,  the  snow  came  down,  and  covered 
all  the  spot  with  its  mantle  of  white. 

Arthur  walked  into  his  still  house,  his  mother  lean 
ing  upon  his  arm,  feeling,  for  the  moment,  as  if  the 
work  of  his  life  had  been  taken  from  his  hands.  He 
wandered  through  the  silent  rooms,  and  paced  up  and 
down  his  study,  unable,  in  the  strange  circumstances  in 
which  he  found  himself,  to  take  up  a  book,  or  to  engage 
himself  in  any  mental  exercise.  He  sat  down  in  his  old 
seat,  took  up  his  Bible,  opened  it,  and  read  the  first  pas 
sage  upon  which  his  eye  fell — "  Rise,  let  us  be  going." 

He  cast  his  eyes  upward,  and  said :  "  Lord,  I  am 
ready." 


• 


AST   AMERICAN   STORY.  449 


lo  &^&.m$qi$»£&  oillicft  bar*  <rr 
^nx  sll    o&lil  li/lnw-xj  M  ganu.&  io<j?9i«  ai-jju  srf*  ©J 


oa  i!99di  .rfeftd  Qf  :-<bi:>7  "ii>*  suiio  j'iow  di  ctei-^ 
ni  k^Msmjnoo  '  cxi  i/ooe  ^jow  fioLtnifiqtnw!  ,  nl 
Bid  oJ  s/56jati'o  vino  s;iT  ,^mo 


on 

CHAPTEE   XXYI. 

britoa  fti'iT     ,u8iil>  natfcf  ^tiol  b^fi  Ofiw  e'^-j-  ^  A^s  ^idiijoia 

DESCRIBING  AN  EVENT  OF   THE  GREATEST  INTEREST  TO  ARTHTJB 
BLAGUE,    FANNY    GILBERT,    AND   THE   READER. 

ARTHUR  thought  he  was  ready  to  go  ;  but  he  was 
not.  Both  his  circumstances  and  his  feelings  held  him 
back.  When  he  thought  of  dislocating  himself  from  all 
the  associations  of  his  life  —  of  selling  off  the  old  house, 
in  which  his  whole  life  had  been  passed,  of  taking  his 
mother  to  a  new  home,  of  leaving  his  early  friends,  and, 
particularly,  of  parting  with  one  toward  whom  he  felt 
himself  attracted  with  constantly  increasing  power  —  his 
heart  sank  within  him.  Besides,  the  shock  he  had  re 
ceived  staggered  him  more  than  he  was  aware.  Under 
the  strength  of  his  first  rebound  from  the  blow  that  had 
laid  him  low,  he  thought  he  was  ready  for  his  work  ; 
but  there  came  upon  him  a  reaction  from  the  other  di 
rection.  His  life  had  flowed  in  one  channel  too  long  to 
be  suddenly  diverted.  He  found  that  there  was  a  cer 
tain  preparation  to  be  effected.  He  must  get  accus 
tomed  to  his  new  outlook  upon  life.  Before  he  could 
work  with  what  strength  there  was  in  him,  his  powers 


450  MISS  GILBERT'S  CABEKE: 

and  sympathies  must  be  harmonized  by  a  process  which 
time  could  only  complete. 

It  has  been  more  than  hinted  that  the  first  interview 
that  Arthur  enjoyed  with  Miss  Gilbert,  after  her  return 
from  New  York,  made  a  profound  impression  upon 
him.  For  a  long  time,  he  feared  to  have  that  impres 
sion  renewed.  Years  previously  he  had  determined,  in 
his  own  mind,  that  the  brilliant  woman  would  not  be  a 
suitable  wife  for  a  minister — nor  for  him.  Her  aims 
were  not  his ;  her  motives  were  not  his.  But  he  had 
caught  a  view  of  the  better  side  of  her  character,  and  it 
had  charmed  him.  Afterwards,  he  had  been  a  quiet, 
deeply  interested  observer  of  her  life,  and  the  strong 
masculine  traits  that  she  often  betrayed  offended  him, 
and  produced  a  reaction  in  his  feelings.  Her  fearless 
ness,  her  self-confidence,  her  love  of  masculine,  out-of- 
door  life,  her  daring  drives,  and  the  genuine,  business 
spirit  with  which  she  came  into  contact  with  men  in  the 
management  of  her  father's  affairs,  gave  him  pain.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  were  one  woman  to  him,  and  another 
to  everybody  else. 

Yet  the  events  of  the  study,  and  her  ready  service 
during  his  absence,  had  changed  his  mind ;  as  she 
changed,  his  feelings  changed ;  and  he  had  begun  to 
feel  that  there  was  something  in  her  and  in  her  society 
which  he  needed.  He  dwelt  upon  all  her  acts  of  kind 
ness  to  little  Jamie  and  his  mother — upon  the  delicate 
sympathy  she  had  extended  to  him — upon  the  faculty 
she  had  to  stimulate  and  fructify  his  thoughts — and  he 
felt  his  admiration  of  her  merging  into  a  sentiment  that 
was  deeper  and  more  tender. 

He  had  already  apprised  his  New  York  friends  of 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  451 

the  death  of  his  brother,  and  informed  them  that  the 
event  would  probably  defer  somewhat  a  definite  reply 
to  their  invitation.  So,  as  he  had  pushed  this  decision 
further  from  his  thought,  and  as  the  changes  through 
which  he  had  passed  had,  in  a  degree,  unfitted  him  for 
study,  he  found  himself,  as  the  weeks  passed  on,  irresist 
ibly  led  into  Fanny  Gilbert's  society.  He  studied  her 
instead  of  his  books — studied  her,  too,  with  entire  ab 
sence  of  weariness  ;  for  he  found  in  process  of  develop 
ment  within  her  a  new  style  of  life.  She  had  become 
his  pupil.  She  sat  before  him  like  a  child,  asked  him 
questions,  led  him  by  her  strange  tact  out  into  the  field 
where  he  had  his  best  life,  explored  his  motives  and  his 
sources  of  strength,  searched  him  through  and  through 
for  that  which  would  give  her  food  and  guidance.  Many 
precious  hours  did  Arthur  pass  with  her  in  these  con 
versations  ;  and,  as  he  was  not  unfrequently  invited  by 
Mr.  Wilton  to  preach,  many  were  the  sermons  which 
he  preached  to  her. 

The  winter  had  broken  up,  and  still  Arthur  lingered 
in  Crampton,  unable  to  speak  the  word  that  should  cut 
him  off  from  his  old  home,  and  transfer  him  to  his  new 
sphere  of  labor.  Fanny,  meantime,  had  conceived  such 
a  reverence  for  her  friend,  and  had  become  so  profoundly 
impressed  with  his  superiority  and  her  own  unfitness  to 
be  his  companion,  that  she  fought  against  every  sugges 
tion  that  she  could  ever  become  his  wife.  She  was  his 
disciple.  She  was  learning  of  him  how  to  live  worthily. 
She  could  not  but  think,  at  times,  how  sweet  it  would 
be  to  be  the  acknowledged  mistress  of  such  a  heart  as 
his,  and  to  repose  in  the  shadow  of  such  a  nature  and 
such  a  character ;  but,  the  more  she  thought  of  this  the 


4:52  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

more  unworthy  she  seemed  to  herself  of  occupying  so 
precious  a  place. 

Again  came  the  still,  bright  days  when  nature,  like 
an  infant  just  awakened  from  a  long,  oblivious  sleep, 
lay  with  open  eyes,  looking  silently  upward,  and  wait 
ing  the  breezy  footsteps  and  the  sweet  kisses  of  the 
motherly  spring.  Again  Fanny  Gilbert  sat  at  her  win 
dow,  as  on  that  spring  day  many  years  before,  when 
"  Tristram  Trevanion  "  was  in  manuscript,  and  Mary 
Hammett  was  teaching  the  little  children  in  the  school- 
nouse  across  the  common.  She  thought  of  the  changes 
that  had  passed  over  her  since  then — not  only  over  her, 
but  over  all  who  were  dear  to  her.  She  recalled  the 
feelings  she  had  indulged  in  with  relation  to  Arthur — 
feelings  which  she  used  to  'express  to  Mary.  She  had 
once,  in  her  girlish  pride  and  ignorance,  despised  the  boy 
who  could  so  easily  subject  himself  to  the  lives  of  others. 
She  had  thought  him  girlish ;  but  now  she  compre 
hended  the  fact  that  it  had  been  through  womanly  offices 
that  he  had  won  the  grandest  characteristics  of  his  man 
hood  ;  while  she,  having  run  through  her  life  of  am 
bition,  achieved  her  aims,  and  had  her  career,  had  come 
back  to  learn  of  Arthur  Blague  how  to  be  a  woman,  and 
how  to  be  happy. 

That  night  she  received  a  call  which  surprised  and 
puzzled  her.  Mr.  Thomas  Lampson,  the  conductor, 
was  announced,  with  a  request  that  he  might  see  Miss 
Gilbert  alone.  He  seemed  to  be  a  good  deal  embar 
rassed,  and  found  himself  obliged,  at  last,  to  draw  forth 
from  his  pocket  a  package  of  railroad  checks,  and  to  re 
assure  himself  by  rasping  the  end  of  it  with  his  thumb 
nail* 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  453 

"  The  fact  is,  Miss  Gilbert,"  said  he,  desperately, 
"that  I  have  been  feeling  mighty  mean  over  a  little 
something  I  said  to  you  once.  I  feel  meaner  and  meaner 
the  more  I  hear  about  you,  and  I've  come  here  to-night 
to  have  it  squared  off.  I  can't  go  on  so  any  longer.  I 
got  myself  so  worked  up  about  it,  that  I  lay  awake  half 
of  last  night  thinking  it  over;  and  I  told  my  wife  if  I 
lived  to  make  another  trip,  I'd  have  the  thing  settled,  if 
it  killed  me." 

.     "  Why  !  what  can  you  mean  ?  "  said  Fanny,  with  a 
smile  of  wonder. 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  thing  laid  up  against  me  ?  " 
inquired  the  conductor. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  little  chat  we  had  when 
you  came  back  from  New  York  ?  " 

"  Very  well ;  but  there  was  nothing  unpleasant  in 
it  to  me." 

"  Well,  there  was  to  me,"  said  Tom  Lampson,  "  and 
I'm  going  to  get  rid  of  the  whole  of  it.  I  told  you  there 
wasn't  a  woman  in  the  world  good  enough  for  Arthur 
Blague,  and  you  took  it  up.  Well,  I  didn't  mean  to  do 
any  thing  wrong,  but  when  you  turned  on  me,  and  I 
tried  to  paddle  off,  I  meant  you — inside  you  know — I 
saw  you  read  me  like  a  book." 

"  Oh  !  I  never  laid  that  up  against  you,"  said  Miss 
Gilbert,  good-naturedly.  "  Besides,  what  you  said  was 
true,  as  I  have  learned  since." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  take  the  whole  thing  back.  I've 
heard  all  about  what  you  did  for  Widow  Blague's  little 
cripple  when  Arthur  was  gone — how  you  stuck  to  him, 
and  tended  him,  and  how  kind  you  was  to  the  old 


woman,  and  I  felt  meaner  than  beans  about  it.  I  spoke 
to  Arthur  about  you  the  other  day,  and  the  tears  came 
into  his  eyes  as  quick  as  wink.  So  says  I  to  myself,  If 
Fanny  Gilbert  has  got  hold  of  him,  she's  right.  You 
know  I  swear  by  him  straight  through  ;  and  I  came  here 
to-night  for  nothing  under  heavens  but  to  tell  you  that 
I  think  there  is  one  woman  in  the  world  good  enough 
for  him.  Haven't  you — ah — sort  o'  altered  ?  Don't 
you  think  it's  kind  o'  done  you  good  to — O  Lord ! 
here  I  am,  getting  into  hot  water  again  !  " 

Fanny  could  not  help  laughing  and  shedding  tears 
at  the  same  time.  "  I  hope  I  am  altered  somewhat,"  said 
she — "  altered  for  the  better — and  I  am  not  at  all  of 
fended  by  your  allusion  to  the  fact." 

"  Well,  people  talk  about  it,  you  know,"  said  Tom 
Lampson  ;  "  and  I  got  it  out  before  I  thought  what  was 
coming.  Don't  you  s'pose  Arthur  will  go  to  New 
York?" 

"  I  think  he  intends  to  go,  though  he  has  never  told 
me  so  definitely." 

"What  is  he  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell.  He  has  business  to  close, 
I  suppose,  and  you  know  he  has  been  a  good  deal  de 
pressed  by  the  death  of  the  little  boy." 

Mr.  Lampson  sat  half  a  minute  rasping  his  checks. 
Then,  looking  Fanny  innocently  in  the  eyes,  he  said :  "  / 
think  he  means  to  get  married  before  he  goes.  It's  the 
general  talk  about  town,  I  find.  People  have  got  the 
notion  somehow.  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  How  should  1 1  Whom  do  people  im 
agine  he  is  going  to  marry  ?  " 

The  conductor  regarded  her  with  a  very  shrewd, 


AN    AMERICAN    STORY.  455 

arch  look,  which  was  intended  to  bring  a  blush  to  her 
face,  but  which  did  not  move  her  at  all.  "  Well,"  said 
he,  rising  suddenly  to  his  feet,  "  you  are  too  much  for 
me,  Miss  Gilbert ;  I  can't  hoe  my  row  at  all  with  you. 
All  I've  got  to  say  is,  that  I  want  to  be  all  right  with 
both  sides  of  the  family.  Whatever  happens,  I  don't 
want  to  have  any  hard  feelings  toward  Tom  Lampson." 

"  You  talk  in  enigmas." 

"  I  presume  I  do.  I'm  always  saying  something  out 
of  the  way,  and  it  is  time  I  was  getting  along." 

Tom  Lampson  backed  out  of  the  room,  bade  Miss 
Gilbert  good-night,  then  came  back  and  shook  hands 
with  her,  then  expressed  his  regret  for  having  given  her 
so  much  trouble,  and  finally  departed. 

Fanny  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  all  this,  though 
it  appeared  that  the  people  were  talking  about  a  match 
between  her  and  Arthur,  and  that  Tom  Lampson,  a  de 
voted  friend  and  admirer  of  Arthur,  wished  to  intimate 
to  her  that  he  had  no  objection  to  it.  While  she  was 
thinking  of  this,  the  door-bell  rang,  and  immediately 
Arthur  Blague  was  shown  into  the  parlor.  Fanny 
blushed  crimson  the  moment  she  looked  into  his  face, 
as  if  she  supposed  he  could  read  her  thoughts,  and  as  if 
those  thoughts  were  guilty.  For  several  weeks  she  had 
felt  self-distrustful  in  his  presence,  and  now  she  was 
quite  embarrassed.  She  could  not  talk,  but  listened  to 
him  as  if  she  were  a  child,  of  whom  no  demonstration 
was  expected. 

Though  oppressed  by  a  degree  of  timidity,  and  suffer 
ing  from  that  sense  of  insignificance  very  common 
among  genuine  lovers,  Arthur  could  not  but  read  her 
heart.  He  saw  that  a  few  weeks  had  wrought  a  great 


456 

change  in  her,  and  he  would  have  been  very  stupid  had 
he  failed  to  interpret  it  aright.  As  he  looked  upon  her 
in  her  altered  mood  and  bearing,  he  felt  his  own  strong 
nature,  so  long  held  in  check,  going  out  to  her  with  a 
fresh  and  hearty  tenderness. 

Fanny  found  her  tongue  at  last.  Taking  up  the  sub 
ject  suggested  by  Tom  Lampson's  visit,  she  inquired  of 
Arthur  when  it  was  his  intention  to  go  to  New  York. 

"  I  have  not  told  you  I  should  go  at  all,"  replied 
Arthur. 

"  I  know — but  you  will  go." 

"  I  suppose  I  shall,  but  it  is  harder  than  I  ever 
dreamed  it  would  be,  to  leave  Crampton." 

"  I  hope  you  will  go ;  I  think  you  ought  to  go. 
They  want  you  so  very  much,"  said  Miss  Gilbert,  in 
explanation  of  her  decided  opinion  upon  the  subject. 
"  Mary  Sargent,"  she  continued,  "  has  written  to  me  an 
account  of  all  your  successes  there,  and  the  strong  desire 
of  the  church  for  your  return." 

"  They  are  easily  pleased,"  said  Arthur  vacantly. 

"  Then  I  am  sure  you  ought  to  be." 

"  Since  my  friends  here  are  so  willing  to  have  me 
leave  them,"  said  Arthur. 

Miss  Gilbert  blushed,  bit  her  lip,  and  dropped  her 
eyes  before  the  questioning  gaze  that  Arthur  gave  them. 
"  Your  friends  here,"  said  she,  "  desire  to  see  you  in  the 
place  where  you  belong,  engaged  in  doing  the  work 
which  you  are  so  well  calculated  and  prepared  to  per 
form." 

"  Then  you  really  wish  to  have  me  leave  Crampton  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Blague,"  said  Fanny  earnestly,  "  you  cannot 
misunderstand  me,  when  I  tell  you  most  sincerely  that 


AN    AMERICAN    STOEY. 

I  do.  Your  work  is  not  here ;  and  though  you  will 
take  from  my  life  that  which  I  can  poorly  afford  to 
spare,  you  will  deprive  thousands,  by  remaining,  of  that 
which  will  be  of  inestimable  value  to  them." 

Arthur's  eyes  grew  luminous.  "  It  is  hard,"  said 
he,  "  to  cut  loose  forever  from  this  old  retreat,  and  cast 
my  life  among  strangers." 

"  They  will  soon  cease  to  be  strangers,  and  laboring 
for  them,  you  will  quickly  learn  to  love  them.  Then 
think  what  a  life  lies  before  you ! — great,  it  seems  to 
me — great  beyond  comparison.  Think  of  twenty-five 
years  of  labor  in  such  a  city  as  New  York.  Think  of 
bringing  your  mind  into  contact  with  a  hundred  thou 
sand  minds  in  those  twenty -five  years,  with  the  privilege 
of  urging  upon  them  the  motives  of  your  own  life — of 
inculcating  purity,  and  truth,  and  goodness — of  pro 
nouncing  the  name  of  God  over  the  brows  of  multitudes 
of  little  children — of  joining  a  whole  generation  of  young 
men  and  women  in  marriage — of  ministering  consola 
tion  to  the  dying — of  speaking  words  of  comfort  to  a 
world  of  mourners — of  quickening  the  intellects  of 
masses  of  men — of  emptying  your  own  life,  to  the  last 
drop,  into  the  life  of  the  world,  flavoring  your  age  and 
race,  and  enriching  the  blood  of  immortality  itself. 
Think  how,  day  after  day,  men  in  doubt  and  darkness, 
and  women  in  fear,  will  come  to  you  for  guidance  and 
for  strength — how,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  they  will 
throng  to  hear  your  voice,  and  go  away  the  better  for 
hearing  it — how  thousands  of  hearts  will  cling  to  yours 
by  a  myriad  twining  sympathies,  rejoicing  in  your  pres 
ence,  and  aching  in  your  absence,  and  praying  for  you 
always." 

CO 


458  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAHEER: 

Arthur's  lip  quivered,  and  he  could  hardly  control 
his  emotions  as  the  eloquent  woman  unveiled  her  esti 
mate  of  his  office  and  its  privileges.  He  knew  that  she 
did  not  see  the  other  side  of  the  picture,  yet  he  knew 
that  she  saw  one  side  of  it  correctly.  But  it  was  the 
revelation  of  her  heart  and  mind  which  interested  him 
the  most  deeply,  for  all  that  she  had  said  had  passed 
through  his  thoughts  before.  He  had  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that,  personally,  she  was  not  altogether  indiffer 
ent  to  him ;  and  when,  in  fervent  and  well-chosen  words, 
she  magnified  his  office,  and  betrayed  her  sympathy 
with  the  great  aims  of  his  life,  he  was  thrilled  with  a 
new  joy. 

"  Since  you  think  this  life  so  great  and  so  desirable," 
said  he,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  her,  "  how  would 
you  like  to  share  it  ?  " 

"What,  sir?"  Miss  Gilbert  trembled  and  grew 
pale. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  share  it  ?  M 

Fanny  could  not,  or  would  not  understand,  but  sat 
in  dumb  wonder,  looking  into  the  earnest  face  before 
her.  Her  eloquence  was  all  gone  ;  her  lips  were  sealed. 

Arthur  pitied  her  confusion,  and  reproached  himself 
for  his  awkwardness  and  his  stupid  abruptness.  He 
drew  his  chair  still  nearer  to  her,  and  took  her  unresist 
ing  hand.  "  Miss  Gilbert,"  said  he,  "  there  is  but  one 
tie  that  binds  me  to  this  place.  As  you  say,  my  life 
and  my  work  are  not  here.  I  believe  this,  yet  my  heart 
is  here.  It  has  been  here — been  bound  here — more 
than  I  was  aware — more  than  I  was  willing  to  acknowl 
edge  to  myself — since  I  first  met  you  on  your  return 
home.  This  confession  must  be  made,  and  it  may  as 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  459 

well  be  made  now  as  ever,  if  you  will  hear  it.  I  offer 
you  not  only  a  share  in  the  work  of  my  life,  which  you 
estimate  so  highly,  but  I  offer  you  my  heart  and  my 
hand.  Will  you  take  me?  Will  you  become  my 
companion  ?  Will  you  walk  this  golden  road  with  me  ? 
Will  you  be  my  wife,  and  go  with  me  whither  God 
leads  me  1 " 

Arthur  said  this  strongly  and  impetuously,  pressing 
her  hand  with  unconscious  ardor,  and  looking  in  her 
face  as  if  he  would  read  every  thought  and  emotion 
that  struggled  upward  for  expression.  The  strong 
woman  was  weak.  The  blue  eyes  were  suffused.  She 
bowed  before  the  will  that  looked  through  the  eyes  of 
the  young  minister,  and  the  strength  of  the  passion  that 
breathed  in  his  voice.  There  was  a  long  minute  of 
silence,  in  which  they  could  hear  the  beat,  and  feel  the 
jar,  of  one  another's  hearts.  At  last,  she  looked  up 
tremblingly,  with  an  expression  of  undissembled  pain, 
and,  saying,  "  I  am  so  unworthy — so  unworthy,"  burst 
into  tears. 

"  So  am  I." 

Both  rose  by  a  common  impulse  to  their  feet. 
There  was  no  secret  beyond.  They  were  lovers. 
Fanny  Gilbert,  the  ambitious  Fanny  Gilbert,  the  bril 
liant  authoress,  the  courted  and  admired  woman,  now 
gentle,  yielding,  humble,  grateful,  and  glad,  was  pressed 
to  the  strong  man's  heart.  In  that  precious  embrace, 
thrilled  with  satisfaction  through  all  her  gentler  nature, 
she  found  herself  at  home.  Henceforth  there  was  noth 
ing  in  fame  for  her.  The  little  world  around  her, 
thronged  with  its  pigmy  millions,  could  not  charm  her 
out  from  that  great  world  of  the  affections  into  which 


4:60 

she  had  entered,  and  in  which  she  reigned  alone.  A 
great  man  wholly  hers  !  What  had  the  world  for  her 
more  than  this  1  What  had  the  world  for  any  woman 
more  than  this  ?  Like  a  ship  long  tossing  on  the 
ocean,  driven  hither  and  thither  by  fitful  winds,  now 
creeping  among  sunken  rocks,  and  now  careering 
proudly  over  the  obedient  waves,  yet  always  restless, 
she  furled  her  life's  broad  sails  in  this  still  haven, 
dropped  anchor,  and  was  at  rest. 

In  the  brief  hour  that  followed  this  denouement,  these 
richly-endowed  natures  and  accordant  hearts,  that  had 
been  tending  toward  each  other  through  such  dissimilar 
and  widely  separated  paths  for  many  years,  became 
one — one  in  affection,  sympathy,  purpose,  and  destiny. 
Arm  in  arm  they  stood,  wrapped  in  present  joy,  and 
calmly  fronting  the  life  of  labor  and  self-denial  that  lay 
before  them.  Each,  self-relinquished  to  the  other,  and 
both  to  heaven,  they  received  and  appropriated  heaven 
and  each  other  in  return,  so  that  with  the  new  influx  of 
life,  and  love,  and  happiness,  they  felt  ready  for  any 
work  to  which  duty  might  call  them.  Into  that  sanc 
tuary  of  love,  and  into  that  hour  of  love's  first  bliss, 
came  no  echo  of  the  world's  discordant  voices.  A  noble 
man  and  a  noble  woman  had  received  the  choicest  treas 
ure  the  earth  had  for  them.  In  the  first  consciousness 
of  sudden  wealth — in  the  first  experience  of  possession — 
it  seemed  as  if  their  joy  and  peace  filled  the  earth — as 
if  the  great  world  of  life  into  which  they  had  entered 
had  blotted  out  the  world  around  them — or  rather,  as 
if  they  stood  upon  the  pinnacle  of  life,  and  all  beneath 
was  commonplace  and  poor. 

At  length,  by  some  accident  that  not  unfrequently 


AN   AMERICAN    BTORY.  461 

occurs  in  interviews  of  this  character,  Miss  Gilbert's 
head  leaned  against  the  young  minister's  breast.  It  was 
a  very  pretty  sight  indeed,  particularly  if  the  observer 
definitely  understood  the  relations  of  the  parties.  Aunt 
Catharine  did  not ;  and  when,  without  being  aware  of 
Arthur's  presence  in  the  house,  she  came  silently  down 
stairs,  and  suddenly  into  the  room,  her  eyes  took  in  this 
very  remarkable  and  unusual  vision,  she  stood  the  im 
personation  of  bewildered  wonder. 

"  What — under — the — sun — moon  — and  —  stars  !  " 
exclaimed  Aunt  Catharine,  at  length. 

The  lovers  were  both  embarrassed,  but  Arthur  first 
achieved  self-control.  Fanny  blushed  to  the  tips  of  her 
ears,  while  Arthur  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  directly 
before  the  astonished  intruder.  Looking  Aunt  Cath 
arine  pleasantly  in  the  face,  he  said :  "  Have  you  any 
objection  ?  " 

"  Now  you  don't  mean — n 

« I  do." 

"  That  you  have  been — " 

"Yes." 

"  And  gone—" 

"  Certainly." 

"And  done  that  1 " 

"  Just  as  true  as  you  live." 

Aunt  Catharine  threw  herself  into  a  rocking-chair, 
and  rocked  herself,  and  cried  like  a  child.  The  lovers 
were  somewhat  puzzled  by  this  demonstration,  but  they 
sat  down  near  her,  and  the  good  old  spinster  soon  found 
her  tongue,  and  explained  herself. 

"I  didn't  believe — I  never  believed — that  those 
prayers  of  your  mother,  Fanny,  would  be  forgotten. 


462  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAKEEE: 

I've  always  felt  as  if  the  Lord  was  looking  after  you? 
because  I  couldn't  think  he'd  forget  such  a  prayer  as 
your  mother  offered  with  her  very  last  breath.  I've 
been  praying  for  just  exactly  this  thing  for  six  weeks ; 
but  I  didn't  expect  the  Lord  would  answer  me — I 
didn't ; "  and  then  Aunt  Catharine  buried  her  face  in 
her  handkerchief,  and  cried  again. 

"  Then  you've  no  objection  ?  "  said  Arthur. 

"  Objection  !  Goodness  !  If  the  Lord  hasn't  any 
objection  on  your  account,  I'm  sure  I  haven't  any  on 
Fanny's." 

Then,  by  a  sudden  revulsion  in  her  feelings,  she  be 
gan  to  laugh  half-hysterically,  and  then  they  all  laughed 
together. 

"  Now,"  said  Aunt  Catharine,  "  you  have  got  to  go 
into  the  office,  and  see  the  doctor,  and  I  am  going  with 
you." 

Arthur  hesitated  and  remonstrated.  This  was  no 
joke ;  and  it  seemed  a  rude  way  of  approaching  so  deli 
cate  a  subject  as  asking  for  the  person  of  a  child. 

But  Aunt  Catharine  was  excited,  and  could  not  un 
derstand  how  a  great,  joyful  fact,  such  as  this  was  toher? 
could  call  for  delicate  treatment — in  that  house,  at 
least.  So  she  put  Fanny's  arm  in  that  of  Arthur,  took 
the  other  herself,  and,  listening  to  no  remonstrances,  led 
them  into  the  office  and  into  the  presence  of  Dr.  Gilbert. 

"  Here  is  a  young  man,"  said  Aunt  Catharine  mer 
cilessly,  "  who  has  been  abusing  his  privileges  in  this 
house,  and  taking  things  that  don't  belong  to  him." 

The  doctor  looked  up  from  his  newspaper,  through 
his  spectacles,  with  a  questioning  gaze,  evidently  con 
scious  that  something  unusual  was  going  on,  but  en- 


AN   AMERICAN   STOKY.  463 

tirely  at  a  loss  as  to  its  nature.  He  rose  from  his 
chair,  took  Arthur's  hand,  inquired  for  his  health,  and 
invited  him  to  be  seated.  Arthur  declined  the  seat, 
held  to  the  doctor's  hand,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  hardly  responsible,  Dr.  Gilbert,  for  appearing 
here  on  my  present  errand,  with  this  apparent  levity." 

"  Hem  !  "  from  Aunt  Catharine. 

Arthur  turned  upon  his  tormentor  an  appealing 
look,  but  she  was  laughing  behind  her  hand. 

"  Oh !  never  mind  her  nonsense,"  said  the  doctor ; 
out  what  is  your  errand  ?  " 

"  Did  I  ever  ask  many  favors  of  you>  doctor  ?  " 

"  Never  half-enough  :  glad  if  I  can  do  any  thing  for 
you.  Tell  me  what  it  isb  and  you  shall  have  it,  even  to 
the  half  of  my  kingdom." 

"  I  want  just  half  of  your  kingdom,"  replied  Arthur ; 
and,  taking  Fanny's  hand,  he  led  her  forward,  and  said : 
"  I  want,  I  need,  I  love  your  daughter*  Will  you  give 
her  to  me  ?  " 

"  What  does  she  say  about  it  ?  Can't  you  speak, 
girl?" 

"  I  tnink,"  said  Arthur,  smiling,  "  that  if  you  have 
nothing  to  say  against  the  transfer,  she  and  I  can  arrange 
the  rest." 

The  doctor  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them,  and 
looked  benignantly  upon  the  pair  before  him.  Then 
he  turned,  and  walked  away  from  them,  and  cleared  his 
throat,  and  blew  his  nose.  Then  he  came  back,  and  his 
face  became  red,  and  his  throat  grew  worse  and  worse. 
At  last,  he  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and  blurted  out, 
<e  Oh  !  God  bless  you  !  God  bless  you  !  Go  along  ; " 
and  then  turned  and  looked  into  the  fire.  Fanny,  who 


464 

had  not  uttered  a  word,  went  to  his  side,  kissed  him, 
and  the  group  turned,  and  left  him  to  master  his  new 
difficulty  of  the  throat  as  he  best  might. 

The  next  day  the  engagement  was  announced,  and 
such  a  lively  day  of  talk  Crampton  had  never  enjoyed 
before.  There  were  many,  of  course,  to  find  fault  with 
the  match,  but,  as  the  parties  most  interested  were  sat 
isfied,  that  did  not  matter.  The  next  day,  too,  Arthur 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  "  Committee  of  Supply  "  in  New 
York,  accepting  the  invitation  to  the  pastorate  of  the 
new  church.  In  a  private  note  to  Mr.  Frank  Sargent, 
Arthur  informed  him  of  his  engagement  to  Miss  Gil 
bert,  at  which  there  was  great  joy  in  the  house  of  the 
Sargents,  and  among  a  multitude  of  Fanny's  old  ac 
quaintances,  who  had  become  aware  of  the  change  in  her 
character  and  purposes.  In  fact,  the  matter  got  into  the 
New  York  papers,  which,  following  the  example  of  the 
Athenians,  (ancient  Athenians,)  "  spend  their  time  in 
nothing  else  but  either  to  tell  or  to  hear  some  new 
thing."  It  was  publicly  stated  that  "  Rev.  Arthur 
Blague,  a  young  man  of  the  most  promising  genius,  had 

accepted  the  call  of Church,"  and  that  rumor  had 

it  that  he  was  soon  to  be  united  in  marriage  to  no  less  a 
personage  than  the  brilliant  writer  of  "  Rhododendron." 

Mr.  Thomas  Lampson,  the  popular  and  gentlemanly 
conductor,  &c.,  &c.,  was  probably  quite  as  much  de 
lighted  with  the  arrangement  as  any  of  his  neighbors  ; 
and,  having  had  a  hand  (in  his  opinion)  in  bringing  his 
friends  together,  he  next  procured  a  pair  of  passes  to 
New  York,  from  the  president  of  the  railroad  corpora 
tion,  and  sent  them  to  Arthur,  as  a  slight  inducement  for 
him  to  reply  favorably  to  his  New  York  call. 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  465 


CHAPTER  XXYII. 

WHICH  CHANGES  THE  RELATIONS  OF  SOME  OF  OUB  CHABACTEBS, 
EELATES  THE  CHANGES  OF  OTHEES,  AND  CLOSES  THE  BOOK. 

LIFE  with  our  Crampton  friends  did  not  linger : 
why  should  its  story  be  prolonged  ? 

Arthur  felt  and  acted  as  if  the  power  of  another  soul 
had  been  added  to  his  own.  He  was  in  no  mood  for 
love's  dalliance  and  dissipation.  The  sense  of  loneliness 
which  once  oppressed  him,  as  he  tried  to  front  the  life 
to  which  he  had  been  called,  was  gone,  and,  with  the 
companionship  which  had  been  pledged  to  him,  he  felt 
prepared  for  any  labor  and  all  sacrifice.  The  past  was 
a  long  dream  of  toil  and  trial  into  which  his  memory 
flowed  with  ineffable  tenderness;  the  future,  a  bright 
reality  of  love,  beneficence,  and  fruition.  He  longed  to 
immerse  himself  in  the  life  that  was  already  dashing  at 
his  feet,  as  a  strong  swimmer,  standing  upon  the  ocean's 
beach,  longs  to  plunge  into  the  waves,  and  drown  the 
restless  fever  of  his  powers.  The  long  subordination 
of  his  being  past,  every  faculty  of  his  soul  sprang  into 
positive  life  and  demonstration. 

Toward  her  new  life,  Fanny  proceeded  tremblingly. 
20* 


MISS  GILBERT'S  CABEER: 

Her  self-confidencd  relinquished,  she  turned  to  him  to 
whom  she  had  pledged  herself,  for  guidance  and  encour 
agement.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  her,  that  in  her  feel 
ing  of  dependence  there  was  no  sense  of  humiliation — 
no  loss  of  self-respect — that  in  this  feeeling  she  found  a 
degree  of  joy,  and  rest,  and  strength,  to  which  she  had 
hitherto  been  a  stranger.  She  had  lost  her  habitual 
self-seeking — lost  her  imperious  will — gladly  laid  down 
her  proud  self-reliance,  and  found  her  womanhood.  In 
after  months  and  years,  she  learned,  through  feeding  the 
springs  of  a  man's  power,  enriching  the  food  of  his  life, 
purifying  his  motives,  encouraging  his  efforts,  and  filling 
his  heart  with  love,  what  were  her  true  relations  to 
manhood.  She  learned  that  man  and  woman  are  one — 
that  neither  man  nor  woman  can  lead  a  manly  life 
alone — that  the  noblest  manhood  must  draw  its  vital 
elements  from  womanhood,  and  that  all  the  strong  and 
masculine  demonstrations  of  her  own  life  had  been  bald 
and  barren.  She  learned  that  man  holds  in  his  consti 
tution  the  element  of  power — the  basis  of  all  demon 
strative  public  functions — and  that,  by  the  degree  in 
which  woman  possesses  this  element,  is  she  exceptional* 
even  if  she  be  not  abnormal. 

She  learned,  too,  that  this  characteristically  mascu 
line  element  of  power,  unsoftened,  unregulated,  un- 
purified,  unfructified  by  the  characteristic  elements  of 
womanhood,  or  the  discipline  of  womanhood,  is  a  blind, 
selfish,  unfruitful  force,  dissociated  altogether  from  good 
ness,  and  lacking  the  essential  qualities  of  humanity. 
She  learned  that  the  power  of  Arthur  Blague  was  a 
good  power  through  the  womanly  subordination  of  his 
early  life,  and  that  the  noblest  function  of  her  life  was  to 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  467 

sit  in  the  place  of  that  early  discipline,  and  inform  and 
inspire  the  demonstrations  of  his  manhood  by  her  own 
ministry  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness.  When  her 
life  had  become  fully  blended  into  unity  with  his,  she 
learned  that  a  woman's  truest  career  is  lived  in  love's 
serene  retirement — lived  in  feeding  the  native  forces  of 
her  other  self — lived  in  the  career  of  her  husband. 

But  we  are  getting  along  faster  than  our  lovers. 
Arthur's  engagement  to  Fanny,  and  the  changes  which 
it  involved,  were  not  without  very  important  relations 
to  their  respective  families.  The  question  as  to  what 
should  become  of  Arthur's  mother,  though  troubling 
her  not  a  little,  did  not  amount  to  a  question  with 
Arthur.  The  man  was  not  a  less  dutiful  son  than 
the  boy.  He  determined  that,  wherever  he  might  go, 
his  mother  should  accompany  him  ;  and,  as  it  was  hard 
for  her  to  think  of  parting  with  the  house  in  which  she 
had  lived  so  many  years,  Dr.  Gilbert  generously  pro 
vided  for  its  retention  in  her  possession.  It  would  be 
a  good  summer  house,  he  said,  for  them  all  to  occupy 
during  the  annual  vacations. 

So,  unobtrusively,  and  with  a  crushing  sense  of  her 
uselessness  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Blague  accustomed  her 
self  to  the  thought  of  removing  to  New  York.  Her  life 
was  hid  in  Arthur.  All  her  pride,  all  her  love,  and  all 
her  earthly  hope  were  in  him. 

Dr.  Gilbert,  though  cordially  approving  Fanny's 
match,  was  quite  overcome  with  the  thought  of  losing 
her.  The  failure  of  his  son  to  fulfil  his  early  promise, 
and  the  change  that  had  been  wrought  in  his  daughter, 
had  effected  a  revolution  in  his  feelings.  In  truth,  now 
that  Arthur  had  been  brought  into  such  peculiar  rela- 


4:68  MISS  GILBERT'S  OAEEEB: 

tions  to  him,  he  began  to  dwell  upon  his  prospects  in 
the  same  way  that  he  formerly  did  upon  those  of  Fred. 
It  was  but  a  few  days  before  he  was  ready  to  talk  of  his 
prospective  son-in-law  with  all  the  ardor  of  an  old  and 
an  overfond  father. 

Poor  Fred!  All  this  affected  him  deeply.  Rest 
had  done  much  for  him,  and  he  felt  his  strength  slowly 
mending,  but  the  removal  of  his  sister  was  to  him  like 
the  loss  of  a  right  eye.  When  he  saw  that  he  was  to 
be  left  alone,  stranded  upon  a  barren  home ;  when  he 
saw  how  his  father's  interest  in  him  was  abated — how 
that  interest  had  been  transferred  to  others — he  was 
very  sad. 

But  this  did  not  last.  He  saw  how  soon  the  care 
of  his  father's  affairs  must  come  into  his  hands,  or  pass 
into  those  of  strangers,  and  the  consideration  awoke 
him  to  new  life.  Renouncing  forever  his  studies  and  all 
ambition  for  distinction,  he  set  himself  about  business — 
taking  Fanny's  place  in  doing  his  father's  correspond 
ence,  and  mingling  in  out-of-door  life,  as  he  became 
strong  enough  for  it. 

The  gossips  of  Crampton,  though  busy  with  their 
inquiries,  could  find  out  nothing  relating  to  the  ap 
proaching  wedding.  Fanny  herself  was  puzzled  about 
it  quite  as  much  as  they,  and  was  helped  to  a  decision, 
at  last,  by  a  suggestion  from  her  New  York  friend, 
Mary  Sargent. 

About  this  time,  Mr.  Lampson,  the  conductor,  called 
to  see  Arthur  Blague  upon  business.  The  superintend 
ent  of  the  road  had  been  invited  to  a  more  desirable 
post  in  another  corporation,  and  the  conductor  wanted 
the  vacant  place,  and  considered  himself  competent  to 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  469 

fill  it.  He  was  sure  Arthur  could  get  the  appointment 
for  him,  and  Arthur  promised  to  do  his  best  for  that 
end.  Through  Arthur's  influence,  or  by  means  of  his 
own  excellent  reputation,  "  the  popular  and  gentlemanly 
conductor  "  was,  a  few  days  afterward,  transformed  into 
"  the  obliging  and  efficient  superintendent." 

When  Thomas  Lampson,  Esq.,  called  upon  Arthur 
to  inform  him  of  his  good  fortune,  it  occurred  to  the 
latter,  that,  as  his  friend's  salary  had  been  materially  in 
creased,  it  was  possible  that  his  wants  had  been  enlarged 
in  a  corresponding  degree.  So  he  proposed  that  when 
he  should  remove  to  New  York,  the  new  superintendent 
should  take  his  wife  over  to  the  vacated  house,  and  set 
up  housekeeping — using  the  family  furniture,  and  taking 
care  of  it,  with  a  view  to  ultimately  purchasing  the 
whole  establishment.  The  proposition  pleased  Mr. 
Lampson  exceedingly.  To  become  the  master  of  Ar 
thur  Blague's  mansion  was  a  new  and  very  grateful  dig 
nity,  and  the  matter  was  finally  arranged  to  the  satis 
faction  of  all  parties. 

On  a  bright  May  morning  following  this  arrange 
ment,  there  was  a  huge  collection  of  trunks  and  boxes 
upon  the  piazza  of  Dr.  Gilbert's  house,  and  another  pile 
equally  large  in  front  of  Mrs.  Blague's  dwelling.  There 
was  also,  at  the  station-house  that  morning,  an  unusually 
large  number  of  young  men  and  women,  unprepared  for 
a  journey.  They  had  come  to  witness  a  departure,  and 
they  did  not  wait  long.  The  trunks  and  boxes  were 
brought  over  upon  a  truck,  and  they  were  soon  followed 
oy  the  members  of  both  families  entire — Arthur  and  his 
mother,  Fanny  and  Fred,  and  the  doctor  and  Aunt 
Catharine.  They  were  all  going  down  to  witness  Ar- 


4:70  MISS  GILBERT'S  CABEER: 

thur's  ordination,  at  the  invitation  of  Mr.  Frank  Sar 
gent  and  his  family.  The  group  of  townspeople  closed 
around  Arthur  to  bid  him  farewell,  and  to  offer  him  a 
thousand  good  wishes.  Fanny  was  adjured  not  to  think 
of  getting  married  before  she  returned,  which,  for  some 
reason,  brought  a  bright  blush  to  her  face. 

The  new  superintendent  of  the  road  took  the  occa 
sion  to  run  over  his  line  that  morning,  and  relieve  the 
party  of  the  care  of  the  luggage  they  had  taken,  be 
sides  making  himself  generally  agreeable  all  the  way. 
No  conductor  was  allowed  to  invade  the  sacredness  of 
that  group  by  the  call  for  tickets.  As  they  approached 
the  trunk-road  that  would  separate  them  from  Mr. 
Lampson' s  care,  the  superintendent  invited  Arthur  to  a 
private  interview.  They  therefore  took  a  seat  together. 

"  You  know,"  said  Tom  Lampson,  "  that  I  sent  you 
a  couple  of  New  York  passes,  a  while  ago." 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  very  thankful  for  them." 

"  You  know,  too,  that  I  went  to  you  to  get  a  good 
word  for  me  with  the  directors,  when  I  wanted  to  be 
superintendent." 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  that." 

"  The  two  things  weren't  a  great  ways  apart,  were 
they?" 

«  No— why  ?  " 

"  Did  you  think,  because  I  sent  you  those  infernal, 
little,  contemptible  passes,  that  I  wanted  to  hire  you  to 
work  for  me  ?  " 

"  Never  !  of  course  not." 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Mr.  Lampson.  "I  was 
thinking  about  you  last  night,  and  this  thing  came 
across  me,  and  I  just  kicked  the  clothes  off,  and  jumped 


AN   AMERICAN    STORY.  471 

out  of  bed,  and  frightened  my  wife  all  but  to  death. 
The  fact  is,  that  I  didn't  know  any  thing  about  the  super 
intendent  matter  when  I  sent  those  passes — not  a  thing." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  didn't  suppose  you  did,"  said 
Arthur,  with  a  hearty  smile.  "  So  you  have  had  all 
your  trouble  for  nothing." 

"  Well,  I  was  bound  not  to  let  you  go  away  think 
ing  that  Tom  Lamp  son  was  a  mean  man — giving  things 
to  his  friends  for  the  sake  of  getting  work  out  of  them. 
All  square,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  you  know  it  is,  Tom,"  responded  Arthur. 

"  Ever  think  of  old  times,  Mr.  Blague  1 "  inquired 
Mr.  Lampson,  changing  the  subject.  "  Remember  about 
mowing  bushes,  up  in  Ruggles'  pasture  1  Things  have 
changed  some,  haven't  they  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  these  things  a  great  deal  lately. 
The  Lord  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  to  you,  too, 
Tom.  Just  think  how  prosperously  you  are  getting 
along." 

"  I  know  it,"  responded  Mr.  Lampson,  "  and  it's  a 
rotten  shame  that  I  ain't  pious ;  but  I  don't  get  at  it, 
somehow.  I  mean  to  be,  though,  and  I  think  I  shall  be. 
I  vow  I'd  give  a  pile  if  I  was  only  all  through  with  that 
thing." 

"  Where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way,  in  religion,  as 
in  other  things,"  replied  Arthur. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Lampson, 
"  I've  always  been  hoping  I  should  get  converted  under 
you.  It  don't  seem  as  if  Daddy  Wilton  could  do  any 
thing  for  me.  He  don't  stir  me  up  a  particle.  I 
thought  you'd  fetched  me  once,  but  somehow  it  didn't 
stick." 


472  MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER: 

Arthur  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  strange  con 
ception  of  Christianity  which  had  possession  of  the  mind 
of  his  friend,  but  felt  that  he  had  no  time  then  to  en 
lighten  him. 

"  If  I  don't  get  along,"  said  Mr.  Lampson,  "  you'll 
see  me  in  New  York.  I  ain't  going  to  drop  this  thing, 
any  way.  I  believe  if  I'd  begun  back,  when  you  did,  I 
might  be  a  preacher  now,  myself.  I  tell  you,  religion 
does  lots  for  a  feller.  It  kind  o'  nourishes  him  all  over, 
and  all  through.  I  told  my  wife  the  other  day — says  I, 
It's  just  like  manure  in  a  bed  of  roses.  It  ain't  very 
pleasant,  perhaps,  when  you  first  get  hold  of  it,  but  it 
makes  a  feller  grow — it  does — it's  true." 

Arthur  only  had  time  to  respond  to  Mr.  Lampson's 
opinions  touching  the  fertilizing  influence  of  religion,  and 
to  give  him  a  cordial  exhortation  to  carry  his  good  reso 
lutions  into  effect,  when  the  train  was  stopped,  and  the 
passengers  were  directed  to  change  cars.  Arthur  bade 
the  superintendent  an  affectionate  farewell.  The  latter 
saw  the  baggage  of  the  company  safely  shifted,  and  then 
went  about,  looking  under  the  cars,  and  up  to  the  sky — 
anywhere  but  in  the  faces  of  his  departing  friends.  As 
the  train  was  about  starting,  he  ran  into  the  car,  shook 
hands  with  them  all,  laughed  all  the  time,  jumped  off, 
and  waved  his  handkerchief,  and  then  went  away  wiping 
his  nose  with  it,  and  pretending  to  have  a  very  ugly 
cinder  in  his  eye. 

That  night  the  party  slept  in  the  spacious  Kilgore 
mansion,  of  which  Mary  Sargent  was  the  mistress.  Poor 
Mrs.  Blague  moved  like  one  in  a  dream.  She  had 
hardly  expected  to  live  to  reach  New  York  ;  and  to  be 
entertained  in  such  magnificent  style  by  her  old  boarder 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  4:73 

— the  mistress  of  the  Crampton  Centre  School — under 
such  peculiar  circumstances,  seemed  so  unreal — so 
miraculous — that  it  oppressed  her  quite  superstitiously. 
A  day  or  two,  however,  sufficed  to  give  her  command 
of  her  scattered  senses,  and  she  soon  began  to  enjoy  the 
change  of  scenery  and  circumstance  to  which  her  journey 
had  introduced  her. 

Very  interesting  rumors  were  in  circulation  in  the 
church  to  whose  pastorate  Arthur  had  been  called — 
rumors  which  found  their  way  out  into  the  circles  in 
which  the  popular  authoress  of  "  Rhododendron  "  had 
moved  in  former  years.  The  audience  that  assembled 
to  witness  the  ordination  exercises  was  remarkably 
large.  Many  were  at  a  loss  to  imagine  why  such  a 
crowd  should  be  collected,  even  in  the  great  city,  on 
such  an  occasion.  The  seats  were  not  only  all  filled, 
but  the  aisles  were  crowded  with  patiently  standing 
men  and  women. 

There  were,  at  least,  three  deeply  interested  wit 
nesses  of  the  simple  and  impressive  ceremonials  by 
which  Arthur  Blague  was  set  apart  to  the  office  of 
the  Christian  ministry,  and  inaugurated  as  pastor  of  the 
new  church — Mrs.  Blague,  Mary  Sargent,  and  Fanny 
Gilbert.  As  he  stood  before  them,  calm,  and  firm,  and 
self-possessed,  his  eye  bright  with  the  full  strength  of 
manhood,  a  thousand  sympathetic  hearts  beating  around 
him,  and  a  great  career  lying  before  him,  tears  filled 
their  eyes,  and  all  their  sensibilities  were  flooded  with 
excitement,  as  if  they  were  moved  by  the  inspiration  of 
eloquence  or  poetry. 

At  the  close  of  the  exercises  of  the  occasion,  while 
the  audience  waited  for  the  accustomed  benediction,  Ar- 


474: 

thur  descended  from  the  pulpit,  and  made  his  way,  un 
attended,  down  the  broad  aisle  to  the  pew  where  Fanny 
Gilbert  sat  with  her  friends.  He  opened  the  door, 
bowed  with  a  pleasant  smile  to  Fanny,  who  rose,  took 
his  arm,  and  advanced  with  him  to  the  chancel,  where 
a  white-haired  old  pastor  awaited  them.  There  the 
career  of  Miss  Gilbert  ended,  and  the  career  of  Mrs. 
Arthur  Blague  began.  There,  in  the  presence  of  Ar 
thur's  people,  did  she  give  herself  to  him  and  to  them. 
The  old  pastor  gave  them  and  the  congregation  his  ben- 
ison,  and  a  multitude  of  friends  pressed  forward  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  their  new  pastor  and  his  wife. 
Among  those  who  came  around  the  interesting  pair, 
were  several  of  Fanny's  old  friends,  who  welcomed  her 
back  with  abundant  joy.  Mr.  Frank  Sargent  took  the 
occasion  to  be  very  busy.  There  were  several  persons 
present  whom  he  wanted  in  the  church,  and  whom  he 
had  thus  far  failed  to  "  rope  in."  These  were  brought 
forward  and  introduced  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Blague  and  his 
wife,  and  treated  with  all  that  consideration  which  their 
uncertain  position  demanded. 


Thus,  for  the  purification  of  the  great  city,  was 
another  rill  of  the  healthful  country  life  poured  into  it. 
Thus,  in  God's  loving  and  far-seeing  providence,  was 
brought  to  its  terminal  link  that  long  concatenation  of 
trial  and  sorrow,  of  struggle  and  disappointment,  of 
patient  waiting  and  faithful  working,  of  sickness  and 
death,  which  has  formed  the  staple  of  this  story.  Into 
these  two  lives,  prepared  for  great  purposes,  had  been 
poured  abundant  experiences.  For  them  had  others 


AN   AMERICAN   STORY.  475 

unconsciously  lived.  Even  the  proprietor  of  Huckle- 
"bury  Run,  and  the  man  who  robbed  him  both  of  his 
money  and  his  daughter,  were  made  tributary  to  the 
grand  result.  With  frames  which  only  country  breed 
ing  can  build,  with  broad  and  fruitful  natures,  with 
power  to  labor,  and  with  determined  will  and  purpose, 
they  gave  themselves  to  the  city — a  contribution  to 
those  conservative  and  recuperative  forces  of  city  life, 
evermore  country-born,  which  make  progress  possible, 
and  which  alone  save  that  life  from  fatal  degradation 
and  final  extinction. 

Thenceforward  they  became  dispensers  rather  than 
receivers.  Hitherto,  events  had  ended  in  them — little 
rivulets  of  experience,  running  in  from  wide  distances, 
had  found  in  them  their  termination ;  plans  of  life  had 
exhausted  their  material  on  reaching  them ;  plots  had 
unravelled  themselves  at  their  feet.  Now,  prepared  for 
their  destiny  and  their  ministry,  the  stream  of  benefi 
cence  went  out  from  them,  and  grew  broader  as  it 
flowed.  Crampton  life,  which  had  seemed  so  poor,  in 
significant,  hard,  and  barren,  blossomed  in  New  York 
into  consummate  beauty,  and  shook  with  its  burden  of 
fruit  like  Lebanon.  We  shall  hear  of  that  fruit  in  the 
"  harvest-home  "  of  the  angel-reapers. 


There  was  a  midsummer  gathering  but  a  few  years 
ago  at  the  old  Gilbert  mansion.  Dr.  Gilbert  and  Mrs. 
Blague  were  not  there,  for  they  had  passed  away.  Dr. 
Gilbert  had  lain  down  to  rest  by  the  side  of  his  wife, 
and  Mrs.  Blague  had  taken  her  place  with  her  husband, 
little  Jamie,  and  the  fair-haired  children  of  her  youth. 


476 

The  house  has  a  new  master  and  a  new  mistress.  Fred 
Gilbert  is  a  farmer,  and  Mrs.  Fred  Gilbert  is  a  sister 
of  Mrs.  Thomas  Lampson — in  short,  a  Joslyn — not  only 
a  pretty  woman,  but  every  way  a  worthy  one.  So  Ar 
thur  Blague  and  his  wife,  Thomas  Lampson  and  his 
wife,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fred  Gilbert,  are  bound  to  each 
other  by  family  ties  no  less  than  by  the  closest  friend 
ship. 

The  party  talk  of  old  times  and  old  scenes.  They 
walk  over  to  the  burial-ground,  and,  in  silence,  gather 
about  the  clumps  of  roses  that  hide  their  friends,  and 
speak  tenderly  of  the  departed.  Arthur  leans  upon  the 
family  monument,  and,  gazing  upon  the  mound  that 
rises  above  the  breast  of  little  Jamie,  goes  back  in 
memory  over  his  painful  history,  and  weeps  like  a 
woman.  At  length,  he  calls  to  him  his  three  children, 
and  tells  them  where  their  little  uncle  lies,  of  whom 
they  have  heard  so  many  times. 

As  they  pass  out  they  note  a  newly-made  grave  by 
the  side  of  that  of  Mr.  Ruggles.  "  So  the  old  woman 
is  gone,"  is  all  the  remark  that  is  made.  They  call 
upon  the  Joslyn  family — now  one  of  the  most  thrifty 
and  respectable  families  of  the  town — thanks  to  Mrs. 
Joslyn.  The  old  man  is  past  work,  but  the  old  woman 
looks  as  if  she  might  last  twenty  years  yet. 

But  the  town  generally  is  changed.  Neither  Arthur 
nor  Fanny  feels  at  home.  They  turn  toward  their  newer 
friends  and  fresher  associations — to  the  good  five  hun 
dred  hearts  in  which  they  have  their  dwelling-place; 
and  as  they  turn  to  bid  farewell  to  Crampton,  we  wave 
them  our  adieu ! 


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297123 

Holland,  J.O.  PS19UU 

Miss  Gilbert's  M? 

career. 


LIBRARY 

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